IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


A 


.■v  ^ 


:/. 


V, 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


|25 
1^    12.2 


2.0 


1.4    IIIIII.6 


4 


m 


O; 


7 


:^  > 


V 


7 


-^ 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

V^BSTER.N.Y.  14580 

(.16)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  aKer  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


D 


Couverture  endommagde 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur^e  et/ou  pelliculde 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


D 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


D 
0' 


D 


D 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  Mure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int^rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  duns  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilmd  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 

□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

I      I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 


Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul^es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachetdes  ou  piqu6es 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6es 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Qualitd  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


I      I    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

n~|    Pages  detached/ 

I      I    Showthrough/ 

[""K  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 

I      I    Only  edition  available/ 


D 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6X6  film6es  i  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtenir  \e  meilleure  image  possible. 


The  c 
to  the 


Theli 
possil 
of  the 
filmir 


Origir 
begin 
the  la 
sion, 
other 
first  F 
sion, 
or  illu 


Theli 
shall  I 
TINUI 
whicf 

Maps 

diffen 

entire 

begin 

right 

requii 

meth( 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  ind:qu6  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

SOX 

V 

J 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

•e 

dtails 
IS  du 
nodifier 
>r  une 
ilmage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Thomai  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


es 


L'exemplaire  film^  fut  reproduit  grace  A  la 
gAn^rosit^  de: 

Thomas  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  iti  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteti  de  l'exemplaire  filmd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim^e  sont  filmds  en  commencant 
par  le  pramier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  —^>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  6tre 
film^s  i  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n6cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


errata 
I  to 

t 

}  pelure, 

on  d 


n 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

e 

POPULAR   NOVELS 

BY  MAY  AGNES   FLEMING. 


I 


I.— oUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 

3.-  A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 

3.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 

4.— NORINE'S  REVENGE. 

5.— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 

6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 

7.— KATE  DANTON. 

8.— SILENT  AND  TRUE, 

9.— HEIR  OF  CHARLTON, 
10.— CARRIED  BY  STORM, 
II.— LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN, 
12.— A  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY, 
13— A  CHANGED  HEART, 
14— PRIDE  AND  PASSION, 
15— SHARING  HER  CRIME, 
16— A  WRONGED  WIFE, 
17— MAUDE  PERCY'S  SECRET, 
18— THE  ACTRESS'  DAUGHTER, 
19.— THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  ISLE, 
aa— THE  MIDNIGHT  QUEEN. 
21.— EDITH  PERCIVAL. 
3a — WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 
33.— A  FATEFUL  ABDUCTION. 
24.— THE  SISTERS  OF  TORWOOD. 


(New). 


"Mrs.  Fleming's  ?tories  are  growing  more  and  more  popular 
every  day.     Their  delineations  of  character,  life-like  con- 
versations, flashes  of  wit,  constantly  varying  scenes, 
and  deeply  interesting  plots,  combine  to   place 
their  author  in  the  very  first  rank  of  Modern 
Novelists," 

Elegantly  bound  in  cloth,  Price  $1.00  each,  and  sent 
FREE  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

G.  W.  Dillingliani  Co.,  Publishers, 

NEW  YORK. 


SHARING 

HER    CRIME. 


3.  JCooeL 


MAY    AGNES    FLEMING, 

AtTUOR    OF 

■AILSCOURT's  wife,  "  "  a  terrible  SECRBT,  "  "  SILZNT  AJID  TEJIE, '' 


A    WONDERFUL    WOMAN, 


>>    t< 


LOST    FOR    A    WOMAN/ 


"ONK  night's  mystery,"  "  A  MAC  MARUAOl,' 
ETC.      EiC 


'  A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,   and  command) 
And  yet  a  spirit  still  and  bright. 
With  something  of  an  angel  light." 


'J'^ 

'.'(1 


^ 


'M 


NEW  YORK: 
CH    W:   DiUingham     Co.,   Publisk^n, 


--4 


PS 
1(7? 


V 


^  W.  CARLETON  ft  OOd 


CONTENTS. 


I.  The  Plotter! 7 

II.  The  Death  of  Esther 18 

III.  The  Astrologer 24 

IV.  Barry  Oranmore 99 

V.  Mount  Sunset  Hall 37 

VI.  Lizzie's  Lover 49 

Vn.  The  Cypress  Wreath 6a 

Vin.  Gipsy 70 

IX.  A  Storm  at  Mount  Sunset  Hall 8s 

X.  Miss  Hagar 91 

XL  Gipsy  Outwits  the  Squire lOX 

XII.  The  Tigress  and  the  Dove 109 

XIII.  Gipsy  astonishes  the  Natives X19 

XIV.  The  Moonlight  Flitting xjo 

XV    The  ••  Star  of  the  Valley." 139 

XVL  Our  Gipsy ISO 

XVn.  Gipsy't  Return  to  Sunset  Mall i|8 


i 

i 

■Hi 


i>-\ 


?»| 

■     *   u 


'    If 


.-ill 


^v 


fi  CONTENTS. 

XVIII.  Archie 169 

XIX.  Gipsy's  Daring l8a 

XX.  The  Sailor  Boy's  Doom 191 

XXI.  The  Spider  Weaves  his  Web 904 

XXII    Fetters  for  the  Eaglet ais 

XXIII    The  Bird  *:aged aaa 

XXIV.  May  and  P-cember 135 

XXV.  Archib's  Lost  Love S46 

XXVL  Louis S54 

XXVII.  Love  at  First  Sight 967 

XXVIIL  "  The  Old,  Old  Story." ■77 

XXIX.  The  Rivals S«7 

XXX.  Gipsy  Hunts  New  Game S96 

XXXI.  Celeste's  Trial yOb 

XXXn.  "The  Queen  of  Song." 318 

XXXIIL  A  Startling  Oiscovery 338 

XXXIV.  Light  in  the  Darkness ...  334 

XXXV.  The  Death-bed  Confession 341 

XXXVL  Retribution 3>i 

XXXVn.  Another  Surprise 357 

KXXVin.  Tbe  He-ress  of  Sunset  Hall...... 364 

XXXIZ.  *  Lut  Sc«ne  of  AU." nS 


..  i69 
...  i8a 

...  191 

...  ao4 

..  ais 

,..  aaa 

..  ass 

...  146 

..  tS4 

...  a67 

..  177 

...  s97 

..  196 

...  S06 

...  3x8 

...  sa8 

•  334 

•  341 
..  3)1 

•  3S7 
.  364 
.  t7S 


SHARING     HER     CRIME. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE   PLOTTERS. 


"  Tis  a  woman  hard  of  festare, 
Old,  and  void  of  all  good  nature. 
*Tis  an  ugly,  envious  shrew, 
Railing  forever  at  me  and  yon." — Pon. 

T  was  Christmas  Eve.  All  day  long  crowds  oi 
gayiy  dressed  people  had  w;ilked  the  streets, 
basking  in  the  bright  wintry  sunshine.  Sleigh 
after  sleigh  went  dashing  past,  with  merrily 
jingling  bells,  freighted  with  rosy  cheeks,  and 
bright  eyes,  and  youthful  faces,  all  agiow  with  happi- 
ness. 

But  the  sun  must  set  on  Christmas  Eve,  as  on  all 
other  days ;  and  redly,  threateningly,  angrily,  he  sank 
down  in  the  far  west.  Dark,  sullen  clouds  came  rolling 
ominously  over  the  heavens  ;  the  wind  blew  piercingly 
cold,  accompanied  with  a  thin,  drizzling  rain  that  froze 
ere  it  fell. 

Gradually  the  streets  were  dtserted  as  the  storm  i»- 

(7J 


M^ 


TH£    PLOTTBKS. 


\' 


creased  in  fury  ;  Dut  the  Yule  logs  were  piled  h.gh,  tha 

curtains  drawn,  and  every  house,  save  onCy  i.i  the  handsome 
•treet  to  whicli  my  story  leads  me,  was  all  aglow,  ali 
ablaze  with  light. 

In  a  lull  of  the  storm  the  sounds  of  music  and  merry- 
making would  rise  and  swell  on  the  air,  as  light  feet 
tripped  merrily  amid  the  mazes  of  the  dance ;  or  a  sil- 
very peal  of  laughter  would  break  easily  on  the  way- 
farer's ear.  The  reflection  of  the  light  through  the 
crimson  curtains  shed  a  warm,  rosy  glow  over  the  snowy 
ground,  brightening  Uie  gloom  of  that  stormy  winter's 
night. 

Bui  rising  dark,  grim,  and  gloomy  amid  those  gayly 
lighted  mansions,  stood  a  large,  quaint  building  of  dark- 
red  sandstone.  It  stood  by  itself,  spectral,  shadowy,  and 
grand.  No  ray  of  lii^bt  came  from  the  gloomy  windows 
that  seemed  to  be  hermetically  sealed.  All  around  was 
stern,  black,  and  forbidding. 

i\nd  yet — yes,  from  one  solitary  window  there  did 
stream  a  long,  thin  line  of  light.  But  even  this  did  not 
look  bright  and  cheerful  like  the  rest ;  it  had  a  cold,  yel- 
lowish glare,  making  tiie  utter  blackness  of  the  rest  of 
ihc  mansion  blacker  still  by  contrast. 

The  room  from  which  the  light  issued  was  high  and 
iofty.  The  uncarpeted  tioor  was  of  black  polished  oak, 
as  also  were  the  wainscoting  and  mantel.  The  walls 
w«rc  covered  with  landscape  paper,  representing  the 
hideous  Danrjc  of  Death,  in  all  its  variety  of  frightful 
forms.  The  high  windows  were  hung  with  heavy  green 
damask,  now  black  with  dirt  and  age.  A  large  circular 
table  of  black  marble  stood  in  one  shadowy  corner,  and 
a  dark,  hard  sofa,  so  long  and  black  that  it  resembled  a 
coffin,  stood  in  the  other. 

A  smoldering  sea-coal  fire,  the  only  cheerful  thing  in 
that  gloopiy  room,  struggled  for  life  in  the  wide,  yf^wn* 


a 


^Ik 


THE    PLOTTERS. 


I'gh.  the 

indsome 
[low,  aU 

i  merry- 
ght  feet 
)r  A  si!- 
he  way- 
ijrh   the 


a" 


e  snowy 
winter's 

je  gayly 
of  dark- 
wy,  and 
windows 
ind  was 

lere  dii 

did  not 

old,  yel- 

rest  of 

gh  and 
ed  oak, 
3  walls 
ng  the 
ightful 
1  green 
circular 
er,  and 
ibled  a 

liing  in 
yawn- 


ing chimney,     Now  it  would  die  away,  enveloping  the 

apartment  in  gloom,  and  anon  flame  fitfully  up,  until  the 
ghostly  shadows  on  the  wall  would  seem  like  a  train  of 
ghastly  specters  flitting  by  in  the  darkness.  The  elm 
trees  in  front  of  the  house  trailed  their  long  Rrrfls  Against 
the  window  with  a  sound  inexpressibly  dreary  ;  and  the 
driving  hail  beat  clamorously,  as  if  for  admittance. 

On  either  side  of  the  fire-place  stood  two  large  easy* 
chairs,  cushioned  with  deep  crimson  velvet.  In  these, 
facing  each  other,  sat  two  picrsons — a  man  and  a  woman 
— the  only  occupants  of  the  room. 

The  woman  was  tall,  straight,  and  stiflF,  and  seemingly 
about  fifty  years  of  age.  Her  dress  was  a  rustling  black 
satin,  with  a  small  crape  handkerchief  fastened  on  her 
bosom  with  a  magnificent  diamond  pin.  Her  hands,  still 
small  and  wliite,  were  flashing  with  jewels  as  they  lay 
quietly  folded  in  her  lap.  A  widow's  cap  rested  on  her 
head,  which  was  alternately  streaked  with  gray  and  jet. 
But  her  face — so  stern,  so  rigid,  no  one  could  look  upob 
it  without  a  feeling  of  fear.  The  lips — so  thin  that  she 
seemed  to  have  no  lips  at  all — were  compressed  with  a 
look  of  unswerving  determination.  Her  forehead  was 
low  and  retreating,  with  tliick  black  eyebrows  meeting 
across  the  long,  sharp  nose,  with  a  look  at  once  haughty 
and  sinister.  And  from  under  those  midnight  brov/s 
glittered  and  gleamed  a  pair  of  eyes  so  small,  so  sharp 
and  keen — with  such  a  look  of  cold,  searching,  sUely 
brightness — that  the  boldest  gaze  might  well  quail  before 
them.  On  that  grim,  hard  face  no  trace  of  womanly 
feeling  seemed  ever  to  have  lingered — all  was  stern,  harsh, 
and  freezingly  cold.  She  sat  rigidly  erect  in  her  chair, 
with  her  needle-like  eyes  riveted  immovably  on  the  face 
of  her  companion,  who  shifted  with  evident  uneasiness 
beneath  her  uncompromising  stare. 

He  was  a  man  of  forty,  or  thereabouts,  so  tmall  e4 


lo 


THE    PLOTTERS, 


itat/ite  that,  standing  side  by  side,  he  coi:..d  scarccij  aaya 
reached  the  woman's  shoulder.  But,  nDtwithstanding 
his  diminutive  size,  his  limbs  were  disproport'onately 
lon^e  ^or  his  body,  giving  him  the  appearance  oi  being 
all  legs  and  arms.  His  little,  round  bullet-head  was  set 
un  a  prodigiously  thick,  bull-like  neck  ;  and  his  hair, 
short,  and  bristling  up  over  his  head,  gave  him  very 
much  the*  look  of  the  sun,  as  pictured  m  the  alma- 
nacs. 

This  prepossessing^  gentleman  was  arrayed  in  an  im- 
maculate suit  of  black,  with  a  spotless  white  dickey, 
bristling  with  starch  and  dignity,  and  a  most  excruciat- 
ing cravat.  Half  a  dozen  rings  garnished  his  claw-like 
hands,  and  a  prodigious  quantity  of  watch-chain  dangled 
from  his  vest.  The  worthy  twain  were  engaged  in  deep 
and  earnest  conversation, 

"Well,  doctor,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  cold,  measured 
tone,  that  was  evidently  habitual,  "  no  doubt  you  arc 
wondering  why  I  sent  for  you  in  such  haste  to-night." 

•^^  I  never  wonder,  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  pom- 
pous tone — which,  considering  his  size,  was  quite  impos- 
ing. *'No  doubt  you  have  some  excellent  reason  for 
sending  for  me,  which,  if  necessary  for  mc  to  know,  you 
will  explain." 

"  You  are  right,  doctor,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  grim 
sort  of  smile.  "  I  have  an  excellent  reason  for  sending 
for  you.     You  are  fond  of  money,  I  know." 

"  Why,  madam,  although  it  is  the  root  of  all  evil " 

"  Tush,  man  !  There  is  no  need  for  Satan  to  quote 
Sciipture  just  now,"  she  interrupted  with  a  sneer.  "  Say, 
doctor,  what  would  you  do  to  earn  five  hundred  dollars 
to-night  ?" 

"Five  hundred  dollars.?"  said  the  doctor,  bis  small 
eyes  sparkling,  while  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  lighted  up 
bi«  withered  face. 


% 


THE    PLOTTERS. 


II 


cti^  aaT6 

^standing 
-t'onately 
\  oi  being 
d  was  set 
his  hair, 
lim  very 
he   alma- 

in  an  im- 
e  dickey, 
sxcruciat- 
clavv-like 
1  dangled 
d  in  deep 

measured 
t  you  are 
night." 
m  a  pom- 
te  impos- 
jason  for 
now,  you 

th  a  grim 
r  sending 

evii 

to  quote 
er.  "Say, 
id  dollars 

Ills  small 
ghted  up 


^t 


■€ 


"  Yes,"  said  tlie  lady,  "  and  if  well  donc»  I  Jiay  douole 
the  sum.     Whrii  \V(;ii!(l  you  do  for  such  a  pri;e  ?" 

"  Rather  ask  mc  wliat  I  would  not  do." 

'•  Well,  ti'ic  job  is  an  easy  one.     'Tis  but  to " 

She  pausc;rl,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  his  face  A^ith  such 
a  wild  sort  of  gleam  that,  involuntarily,  he  qjailcd  be- 
fore her. 

"  Pray  go  on,  niadain.  I'm  all  attention,"  he  sail, 
almost  fearing  to  break  the  dismal  silence.  "  Tis  but 
to— ^chai  /" 

"  Make  away  with — a  woman  and  child  !" 

"  Murder  them  ?"  said  the  doctor,  involuntarily  recoil* 
ing. 

"  Do  not  use  that  word  !"  she  said,  sharply.  "  Cow- 
ard !  do  you  really  blanch  and  draw  back  !  Methought 
one  of  your  profession  would  not  hesitate  to  send  a 
patient  to  heaven." 

"But,  madam,"  said  the  startled  doctor,  "you  know 
the  penalty  which  tiie  law  awards  for  murder." 

"  Oh,  I  perceive,"  said  the  woman,  scornfully,  "  it  is 
not  the  crime  you  are  thinking  of,  but  your  own  preci- 
ous neck.  Fear  nut,  my  good  friend  ;  there  is  no  danger 
of  its  ever  beini;  discovered." 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  glancing  un- 
easily at  the  stern,  bitter  face  before  him,  "  I  have  not 
the  nerve,  the  strength,  nor  th*^ " 

^*  Courage r  she  broke  in,  pn--  onately.  "Oh,  craven 
— weak,  chicken-hearted,  miserable  craven  !  Go,  then — 
leave  me,  and  I  will  do  it  myself.  You  dare  not  betray 
me — you  could  not  without  bringing  your  neck  to  the 
halter — so  1  fear  you  not.  Oh,  coward  !  coward  !  why 
did  not  heaven  make  me  a  man  V 

In  her  fierce  outburst  of  passion  she  arose  to  her  feet, 
and  her  tall  figure  loomed  up  like  some  unnaturally 
large,  dark  shadow.     The  mtn  quailed  in  fear  before  her. 


f'l2 


« 


1*. 


ra 


THE   PLOTTERS, 


I 


"Go  !"  she  said,  fiercely,  pointing  to  the  door,  **  You 
have  refused  to  share  my  crime.  Go  !  poor  cowardly  pol- 
troon !  but  remember,  Madge  Oranmore  never  forgives 
nor  forgets !" 

*•  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Oranmore,  just  listen  to  me  one 
momeRt,"  said  the  doctor,  alarmed  by  this  threat.  "  I 
ha'^e  not  refused,  I  only  objected.  If  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  explain — to  tell  me  what  I  must  do,  I  will — 
see  about  it." 

"  See  about  it !"  hastily  Interrupted  the  lady.  "  You 
can  do  it — it  is  in  your  power ;  and  yes,  or  no,  must  be 
your  answer,  immediately." 

"  But " 

*'  No  buts,  sir.  I  will  not  have  them.  If  you  answer 
yes,  one  thousand  dollars  and  my  future  patronage  shall 
be  yours.  If  you  say  no,  yonder  is  the  door  ;  and  once 
you  have  crossed  the  threshold,  beware  !  Now,  Doctor 
Wiseman,  I  await  your  reply." 

She  seated  herself  again  in  her  chair ;  and,  folding 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  fixed  her  hawk-like  eyes  on  his 
face,  with  her  keen,  searching  gaze.  His  eyes  were  bent 
in  troubled  thought  on  the  floor.  Not  that  the  crime 
appalled  him  ;  but  if  detected — that  was  the  rub.  Doc- 
tor Wiseman  was,  as  his  name  implies,  a  man  of  sense, 
with  an  exceedingly  accommodating  conscience,  that 
would  stretch  ad  libi^-.v'  and  never  troubled  him  with 
anv  such  nonsense  as  jmorse.  But  if  it  were  discov- 
ered  !  With  rather  unpleasant  vividness,  the  vision  of  a 
hangman  and  halter  arose  befc  re  him,  and  he  involun- 
tarily loosened  his  cravat.  Still,  one  thousana  dollars 
were  tempting.  Doctor  Nicholas  Wiseman  had  never 
been  so  perplexed  in  his  life. 

"  Well,  doctor,  well,"  impatiently  broke  in  the  Udy, 
•*  have  you  decided— ^«  or  na  f 


i#. 


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-[. 


TffA    FLOTTRRS. 


n 


>r,  -You 

irdly  pol- 
•  forgives 

o  me  one 

reat.     "  I 

have  the 

,  I  will— 


r. 


"  You 

must  be 


>u  answer 
lage  shall 
and  once 
Doctor 

3,  folding 
i^es  on  his 
were  bent 
the  crime 
lb.  Doc- 
of  sense, 
nee,  that 
him  with 
e  discov- 
sion  of  a 
involun- 
a  dollars 
ad  never 

the  Udy, 


"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  driren  to  desperat  cti  37  he? 

sneering  tone. 

**  Tis  well,"  she  replied,  with  a  mocking  sraile>  "  I 
knew  you  were  too  sensible  a  man  to  refuse.  After  all, 
'tis  but  a  moment's  work,  and  all  is  over." 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  give  me  the  explana- 
tion now,  madam  ?"  said  the  doctor,  almost  shuddering 
At  the  cold,  unfeeling  tone  in  which  she  spoKC. 

"  Certainly.  You  are  aware,  doctor,  that  when  1 
.  married  my  late  husband,  Mr.  Oranmore,  he  was  a  wid- 
ower with  one  son,  then  three  years  old," 

"  I  am  aware  of  that  fact,  madam." 

"  Well,  you  also  know  that  when  this  child,  Alfred 
was  five  years  of  age,  my  son,  Barry,  was  born." 

"Yes,  madam." 

"  Perhaps  you  think  it  unnecessary  for  me  to  go  so 
far  back,  doctor,  but  I  wish  everything  to  be  perfectly 
understood.  Well,  these  two  boys  grew  up  together, 
were  sent  to  school  and  college  together,  and  treated  in 
every  way  alike,  outwardly  ;  but,  of  course,  when  at  home, 
Barry  was  treated  best.  Alfred  Oranmore  had  all  the 
pride  of  his  English  forefathers,  and  scorned  to  com- 
plain ;  but  I  could  see,  'n  his  flashing  eyes  and  curling 
lips,  that  every  slight  was  noticed.  Mr.  Oranmore 
never  interfered  with  me  in  my  household  arrangements, 
nor  did  his  son  ever  complain  to  him  ;  though,  if  he  had, 
Mr.  Oranmore  had  too  much  good  sense  to  mention  it 
to  mer 

The  lady  compressed  her  lips  with  stately  dignity, 
and  the  doctor  looked  down  with  something  as  near  a 
smile  as  his  wrinkled  lips  could  wear.  He  knew  very 
well  Mr.  OranmDre  would  not  have  interfered ;  for 
never  after  his  marriage  had  the  poor  man  dared  to  call 
his  soul  his  own.  The  lady,  howc^rer,  did  not  perceive 
the  smile,  and  went  on : 


''•N  .1 
in  . 


I'r'. 


K  m 


T      » 


»."( 


>4 


THE    PLOTTERS, 


"  When  Barry  left  college,  he  expressed  a  desire  to 
travel  for  two  or  three  years  on  the  Continent ;  and  I 
readily  gave  hi  in  permission,  for  Mr.  Oranmo'e  was 
then  dead.  Alfred  was  studying  law,  and  I  knaw  his 
uearestwish  was  to  travel  ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
it  was  out  of  the  quesvion  for  him  to  go.  I  told  him 
{  could  not  afford  it,  that  ic  would  cost  a  great  deal  to 
pay  Barry's  expenses,  and  that  he  must  give  up  all  idea 
of  it.  Barry  went,  and  Alfred  staid  ;  though,  as  things 
afterward  turned  out,  it  would  have  been  better  had  1 
allowed  him  to  go." 

Her  eyes  Hashed,  and  her  brows  knit  with  rising  an- 
ger, as  she  continued  ; 

"You  know  old  Magnus  Erliston — Squire  Erliston, 
as  they  call  him.  You  know  also  how  very  wealthy  he 
is  reputed  to  be — owning,  besides  the  magnificent  estate 
of  Mount  Sunset,  a  goodly  portion  of  the  village  of  St. 
Mark's.  Well,  Squire  Erliston  has  two  daughters,  to 
the  eldest  of  whom,  in  accordance  with  the  will  of  his 
father  (from  whom  he  received  the  property).  Mount 
Sunset  Hall  will  descend.  Before  my  husband's  death, 
I  caused  him  to  will  his  whole  property  to  my  son  Barry, 
leaving  Alfred  penniless.  Barry's  fortune,  therefore,  is 
large,  though  far  from  being  as  enormous  as  that  Esther 
Erliston  was  to  have.  Well,  the  squire  and  I  agreed 
that,  as  soon  as  Barry  returned  from  Europe  they  should 
be  married,  and  thus  unite  the  estates  of  Oranmore  and 
Erliston.  Neither  Barry  nor  Esther,  with  the  usual  ab- 
surdity of  youth,  would  agree  to  this  arrangemert ;  but, 
of  course,  their  objection  mattered  little.  I  knew  !  could 
easily  manage  Barry  by  the  power  of  my  stronger  will ; 
and  the  squire,  who  is  rough  and  blustering,  could,  with- 
out mnch  difficulty,  frighten  Esther  into  complian-:e — 
when  all  our  schemes  were  suddenly  frustrated  by  that 
meddler,  that  busy-body,  Alfred  Oranirore." 


!>, 


THE    PLOTTERS. 


lesire  to 
: ;  and  I 
o'e  was 
navv  his 
"  course, 
old  him 
deal  to 
all  idea 
s  things 
T  had  1 

sing  an- 

llrliston, 

althy  he 

nt  estate 

re  of  St. 

Iters,  to 

1  of  hiv«5 

Mount 

death, 

n  Barry, 

efore,  is 

;  Esther 

agreed 

should 

ore  and 

sua]  ab< 

:t ;  but, 

I  could 

er  will ; 

id,  with- 

lian-je — 

by  that 


■I 


She  paitsrcd,  and  again  her  eyes  gleamed  with  eaocen- 
tnited  natred  and  passion. 

"  He  went  to  Mount  Sunset,  and  by  some  means  met 
Esther  Erliston.  Being  what  romantic  writers  would 
sail  one  of  'nature's  princes,'  he  easily  succeeded  in 
making  a  fool  of  her  ;  they  eloped,  were  married  secret- 
ly,  and  Squire  Erliston  woke  up  one  morning  to  learn 
that  his  dainty  lieiwess  had  abandoned  papa  for  the  arms 
of  a  beggar^  and  was,  as  the  wife  of  a  penniless  lawyer, 
residing  in  the  goodly  city  of  Washington. 

"  Pretty  Esther  douhilcss  imagined  that  she  had  only 
to  throw  herself  at  papa's  feet  and  bathe  them  with  her 
tears,  to  be  received  with  open  arms.  But  the  young 
lady  found  herself  slightly  mistaken.  Squire  Erliston 
stamped,  and  raged,  and  swore,  and  frightened  every 
one  in  St.  Mark's  out  of  their  wits  ;  and  then,  calming 
down,  *  vowed  a  vow'  never  to  see  or  acknowledge  his 
daughter  more.  Esther  was  then  eighteen.  If  she  lived 
to  reach  her  majority,  Mount  Sunset  would  be  hers  in 
spite  of  him.  Bwt  fhe  squire  had  vowed  that  before  she 
should  get  it,  he  would  burn  Sunset  Hall  to  the  ground 
and  plow  the  land  with  salt.  Now,  doctor,  I  heard  that, 
and  set  myself  to  work.  Squire  Erliston  has  a  younger 
daughter ;  and  I  knew  thai:,  if  Esther  died,  that  younger 
daughter  would  become  heiress  to  all  the  property,  and 
she  would  then  be  just  as  good  a  wife  for  Barry  as  her 
wster.  Well,  I  resolved  that  Esther  should  no  longer 
stand  in  my  way,  that  she  should  never  ive  to  reach  her 
majority.  Start  not,  doctor,  I  see  that  you  do  not  yet 
know  Madge  Oranmore." 

She  looked  like  a  very  fiend,  as  she  sat  smirng  grimly 
at  him  from  her  seat. 

"  Fortune  favored  me,"  she  continued.  "  Alfred  Or- 
anmore, with  two  or  three  other  you..g  men,  going  out 
one  day  for  a  sail,  wis  overtaken  by  a  sudden  squall'— <t]H$v 


■A 


riS 


1 


I   ( 


I  I 


itf 


THE    PLOTTERS 


knew  little  about  managing  a  boat,  and  a.l  on  OMird 
were  drowned.  I  read  it  in  the  papers  tnd  set  o.-t  for 
Washington.  After  much  difficulty  I  discovered  Esther 
in  a  wretched  boarding-house  ;  for,  after  her  husband's 
death,  all  their  property  was  taken  for  debt.  She  did 
not  know  me,  and  I  had  little  difficulty  in  persuading 
her  to  accompany  me  home.  Three  days  ago  we  arrived. 
I  caused  a  report  to  be  circulated  at  Washington  that  the 
wife  of  the  late  Alfred  Oranmore  had  died  in  ^reat  pov- 
crty  £:nd  destitution.  The  story  found  its  way  into  the 
papers ;  I  sent  one  containing  the  account  of  her  death 
to  Squire  Erliston ;  so  all  trouble  in  that  quarter  is 
over." 

"  And  Esther  /"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  husky  whisper. 

"  Of  her  we  will  speak  by  and  by,"  said  the  lady,  with 
a  wave  of  her  hand  ;  **  at  present  I  must  say  a  few  words 
of  my  son  Barry.  Three  weeks  ago  he  returned  home  ; 
but  has,  from  some  inexplicable  cause,  refused  to  reside 
here.  He  boards  now  in  a  distant  quarter  of  the  city. 
Doctor,  what  says  the  world  about  this — is  there  any 
reason  given  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  with  erident  re- 
luctance. 

"  And  what  is  it,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  I  fear,  madam,  you  will  be  oflFended." 

"'Sdeath  I  man,  go  on  !"  she  broke  in  passionately. 
"  What  sayeth  the  far-seeing,  all-wise  world  of  him  ?" 

"  'Tis  said  he  has  brought  a  wife  with  him  from 
Europe,  whom  he  wishes  to  conceal." 

"Hal  ha!"  li^ughed  the  lady,  scornfully.  "Yes,  I 
heard  it  too — a  barefooted  bog-trotter,  forsooth  !  But 
'tis  false,  doctor  !  false,  I  tell  you  !  Tou  must  contra- 
dict the  report  everywhere  you  hear  it  That  any  one 
should  dare  to  say  that  my  son — my  proud,  handsome 
Barry—would  marry  a  potato-eating  Biddj  I    Ob  f  bitt 


TME    BLOTTERS. 


if 


on  !>«ard 
5ct  o.-t  for 
ed  Esther 
husband's 
She  did 
ersuading 
re  arrived. 
>Q  that  the 
yreat  pov- 
y  into  the 
her  death 
quarter  is 

whisper, 
lady,  with 
few  words 
icd  home  ; 
1  to  reside 
I  the  city, 
there  any 


nrident 


isionately. 
f  him  r 
him  from 

"Yes,  I 
oth !  But 
St  contra- 
ct any  one 
handsome 

Ohr  Imt 


for  my  indignation  I  could  lauj^^h  at  the  utter  sbiur^ 

dity." 

But  the  fierce  gleam  of  her  eye,  and  the  passionate 
clenching  of  her  hand,  bespoke  her  in  anything  but  a 
laughing  humor. 

"I  would  not  for  worlds  this  report  should  reach 
Lizzie  Erliston,"  she  said,  somewhat  more  calmly.  "And 
speaking  of  her  brings  me  back  to  her  sister.  Doctor, 
Esther  Oranmore  lies  in  yonder  room." 

He  startled  slightly,  and  glanced  uneasily  in  the  di- 
rection, but  said  nothing. 

"Doctor,"  continued  Mrs.  Oranmore,  in  a  low,  stem, 
impressive  voice,  while  her  piercing  eyes  seemed  read- 
ing his  very  soul,  "j^  must  never  live  to  see  the  sun  riu 
again  ! 

"  Madam  !"  he  exclaimed,  recoiling  suddenly. 

"  You  hear  me,  doctor,  and  you  must  obey.  She  must 
not  live  to  see  Christmas  morning  dawn." 

"  Would  you  have  me  murder  her  ?"  he  inquired,  in  a 
voice  quivering  between  fear  and  horror. 

"  If  you  will  call  it  by  that  name,  yes,"  she  replied, 
still  keeping  her  blazing  eyes  fixed  immovably  on  his 
face.     "She  and  her  child  must  die." 

"Her  child!" 

"  Yes,  come  and  see  it.  The  night  of  its  birth  must 
he  that  of  its  death." 

She  rose,  and  making  a  motion  for  him  to  follow  her, 
led  the  way  from  the  apartment.  Opening  a  heavy 
oaken  door,  she  ushered  him  into  a  dim  bed-iootsi,  fur- 
nished with  a  liunge,  a  square  bedstead,  whost  dark 
diapery  gave  it  the  appearance  of  a  hearse,  and  a  small 
table  covered  with  bottles  and  glasses.  Going  io  the 
lounge,  she  pointed  to  something  wrapped  in  a  large 
shawl.  He  bent  down,  and  the  faint  wail  of  an  infant 
met  his 


"»      <-! 


i      i> 


■  -m 


m 


J  • 


!v 


If 


THE    DEATH    OF    ESTHER. 


"  She  is  yonder,"  said  the  lady,  pointing  to  the  i)cd  ; 
"examine  these  bottles;  she  will  ask  you  for  a  drink, 
give  it  to  her — you  understand  I  Remember,  you  have 
promised."  And  before  he  could  speak,  she  glided  from 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE   DEATH   OF   ESTHER. 


i    ! 


I 


"What  shrieking  spirit  in  that  bloody  room 
Its  mortal  frame  hath  violently  quitted? 
Across  the  moonbeam,  with  a  sudden  gleam, 
A  ghostly  shadow  tiittcd." — Hood. 

OR  a  moment  he  stood  still,  stunned  and  be- 
wildered. Understand  ?  Yes,  he  understood 
her  too  well. 

He  approached  the  bed,  and  softly  drew 
back  the  heavy,  dark  curtains.  Lying  there, 
in  a  troubled  sleep,  lay  a  young  girl,  whose  face  wa3 
whiter  than  the  pillow  which  supported  her.  Her  long 
hair  streamed  in  wild  disorder  over  her  shoulders,  and 
added  to  the  wanness  of  her  pale  face. 

She  moaned  and  turned  restlessly  on  her  pillow,  and 
opened  a  pair  of  large,  wild  eyes,  and  fixed  them  on  the 
unprepossessing  face  bending  over  her.  With  lips  and  eyes 
opened  with  terror,  she  lay  gazing,  until  he  said,  in  as 
gentle  a  voice  as  he  could  assume  ; 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  of  me — I  am  the  doctor.  Can  I  do 
anything  for  you,  child  ?' 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  replied,  faintly  ;  "  give  me  a  drink." 

He  turned  hastily  toward  the  table,  feeling  so  giddy 

he  could  scarcelv  stand.     A  tiny  vial,  containing  a  clear, 


1'   I, 


THE    DEATH    OF    ESTHER, 


>9 


o  the  ued ; 
for  a  drink, 
,  you  have 
g^lided  from 


led  and  be- 
understood 

softly  drew 
^ying  there, 
se  face  was 
Her  long 
sulders,  and 

pillow,  and 

hem  on  the 

ips  and  eyes 

said,  in  as 

r.    Can  I  do 

le  a  drink." 
ig  so  giddy 
ling  a  clear, 


Colorless  liquid,  attracted  iiis  eye.  He  took  it  up  and 
■^  examined  ii,  and  yetting  his  teelh  hard  together,  poaied 
itscuntems  into  a  g  ass.  Then  filling  it  with  water  lie 
apjiroathed  the  bed,  ar.d  raising  her  head,  pressed  it  to 
her  lips.  IIis  hand  trembled  sc  he  spilt  it  on  the  quilt. 
The  young  girl  lifted  her  wild,  troubled  eyes,  and  fixed 
ihem  oa  his  face  with  a  gaze  so  long  and  steady  that  his 
own  fel.  beneath  it. 

*'  Drink  !'  he  said,  hoarsely,  still  pressing  it  to  her 
lips. 

Without  a  word  she  obeyed,  draining  it  to  the  last 
drop.  Then  laying  her  back  on  the  pillow,  he  drew  the 
curtain  and  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Oranmore  was  sitting,  as  she  had  sat  ali  the 
evening,  stern  and  upright  in  her  chair.  She  lifted  hei 
keen  eyes  a  j  he  entered,  and  encountered  a  face  so  pallid 
and  ghastly  that  she  almost  started.  Doctor  Wiseman 
tottered  rather  than  walked  to  a  seat. 

"  Well  ?"  she  said,  inquiringly. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  hoarsely,  "I  hare  obeyed  you." 

*•  That  is  well.  But  pray,  Doctor  Wiseman,  take  a 
glass  of  wine ;  you  are  positively  trembling  like  a 
whipped  schoolboy.  Go  to  the  sideboard  ;  nay,  do  not 
hesitate  ;  it  is  not  poisoned." 

Her  withering  sneer  did  more  tovrard  reviving  him 
than  any  wine  could  have  done.  H;s  excitement  was 
gradually  cooling  down  beneath  those  calm,  steady  ayes, 
Sent  so  contemptuously  upon  him. 

He  drank  a  glass  of  wine,  aud  resumed  his  seat 
before  the  Qre,  watching  sullenly  the  dying  embeid. 

**  Well,  you  have  performed  your  c^sk  ?" 

"  I  have,  madam,  and  earned  my  reward." 

*'  Not  quite,  doctor  ;  the  infak*.  if  yet  U  b%  dit 
posed  of.' 

"Must  it  die.  too?" 


':!'-" 

»■ 


'.■•if. 


% 


■;y 


THE    DEATH    OF    SSTffMM, 


'■•# 


\  .1  • 


*Yes,  but  not  here.  You  must  remove  It,  in  an? 
way  you  please,  but  death  is  the  safest,  the  surest" 

"  And  why  not  here  ?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  wish  it,"  she  answered,  haughtily; 
**  that  is  enough  for  you,  sirrah  !  You  must  take  the 
child  away  to-night." 

"What  shall  I  do  with  it?" 

"Dolt!  blockhead!  have  you  no  brains?"  she  said 
passionately.  "  Are  you  aware  ten  minutes'  walk  will 
bring  you  to  the  sea-side  ?  Do  you  know  the  waves  re- 
fuse nothing,  and  tell  no  tales  ?  Never  hesitate,  man  ! 
You  have  gone  too  far  to  draw  back.  Think  of  the  re- 
ward ;  one  thousand  dollars  for  ten  minutes'  work  I 
Tush,  doctor  !  I  protest,  you're  trembling  like  a  nervous 
girl." 

"  Is  it  not  enough  to  make  one  tremble  ?"  retorted 
the  doctor,  roused  to  something  like  passion  by  her 
deriding  tone  ;  "  two  murders  in  one  night — is  that 
nothing  ?" 

"  Pshaw  I  no — a  sickly  girl  and  a  puling  child  more 
or  less  in  the  world  is  no  great  loss.  Hark  I"  she  added, 
rising  suddenly,  as  a  wild,  piercing  shriek  of  more  than 
mortal  agony  broke  from  the  room  where  Esther  lay. 
"  Did  you  hear  that  ?" 

Hear  it  I  The  man's  face  was  horribly  ghastly  and 
livid,  as  shriek  after  shriek,  wild,  piercing,  and  shrill 
with  anguish,  buret  upon  his  ear.  Great  drops  of  per- 
spiration stood  on  his  brow — his  teeth  chattered  as 
though  by  an  ague  fit,  and  he  trembled  so  perceptibly 
that  he  was  forced  to  grasp  the  chair  for  support. 

Not  so  the  woman.  She  stood  calm,  listening  with 
perfect  composure  to  the  agonizing  cries,  that  were  grow- 
ing fainter  and  fainter  each  moment. 

"  It  is  well  none  of  the  servants  are  in  this  end  of  the 
house,"  she  said,  quietly ;  "or  those  loud  tcreami  would 


I'  I 


:• : 


THM   DEATH   OF   ESTMJUL 


•f 


it,  in  aaf 

•est" 

haughtily; 
t  take  the 


"  she  said 
walk  will 
I  waves  re- 
tate,  man  ! 
of  the  re- 
:es'  work ! 
a  nervous 

•"  retorted 
)n  by  her 
it — is    that 

child  more 
she  added, 
more  than 
Esther  lay. 

hastly  and 
and  shrill 
ps  of  per- 
ittered  as 
>erceptibly 
ort. 

ining'  with 
vcre  grow- 

end  of  the 
ami  would 


be  overheard,  and  might  give  rise  to  disagreeable  re- 
marks." 

Receiving  no  answer  from  her  companion,  she  turned 
to  him,  and  seeing  the  look  of  liorror  on  his  ghastly 
face,  her  lip  curled  with  involuntary  scorn.  It  was 
f.trange  she  could  stand  there  so  unmoved,  knowing  her- 
j.clf  to  be  a  murderess,  with  the  dying  cries  of  her  victim 
ilill  ringing  in  her  ears. 

They  ceased  at  last — died  away  in  a  low,  despairing 
moan,  and  then  all  grew  still.  The  deep,  solemn  silence 
was  more  appalling  than  her  shrieks  had  been,  for  they 
well  knew  they  were  stilled  forever  in  death. 

"  All  is  over !"  said  Mrs.  Oranmorc,  drawing  a  deep 
breath. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer,  in  a  voice  so  hoarse  and  un- 
natural, that  it  seemed  to  issue  from  the  jaws  of  death. 

Again  she  looked  at  him,  and  again  the  mocking 
smile  curled  her  lip. 

'*  Doctor,"  she  said,  quietly,  **  you  are  a  greater 
coward  than  I  ever  took  you  to  be.  I  am  going  in  now 
to  see  her — you  had  better  follow  me,  if  you  are  not 
a/raidr 

How  sardonic  was  the  smile  which  accompanied  these 
words.  Stunned,  terrified  as  he  was,  it  stung  him,  and 
he  started  after  her  from  the  room. 

They  entered  the  chamber  of  the  invalid.  Mrs. 
Gran  more  walked  to  the  bed,  drew  back  the  curtains,  and 
disclosed  a  frightlu.  spectacle. 

Half  sitting,  half  lying,  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude 
she  had  thrown  herself  into  in  her  dying  agony,  her  lips 
swollen  and  purple,  her  eyes  protruding,  her  hair  torn 
fiercely  out  by  the  roots,  as  she  had  clutched  it  in  her 
fierce  anguish,  was  Esther. 

The  straining  eyeballs  were  ghastlj  to  look  apon — 


€ 


%4 


?«'#-- 


I  I 


sa 


TIU\     DEATH    OF    ESTHER. 


the  once  beautiful  face  was  now  swollen  and  hideous>  ai 

she  lay  stark  dead  in  that  lonely  room. 

Moment  after  moment  passed  away,  while  the  mur 
defers  stood  silently  gazing  on  their  victim.     The  deep 
silence  of  midni;;ht  was  around — nothing  was  heard  save 
r.he  occasional  drifting  of  the  snow  against  the  windows. 

A  stern,  grave  smile  liovered  on  the  lips  of  Mrs. 
Oranmore,  as  she  gazed  on  the  convulsed  face  of  the 
dead  girl.  Drawing  the  quilt  at  last  over  her,  she  turned 
away,  saying,  mockingly  : 

"  Where  now,  Esther  Oranmore,  is  the  beauty  of  which 
you  were  so  proud  ?  This  stark  form  and  ghastly  face 
is  now  all  that  remains  of  the  beauty  and  heiress  of  Squire 
Erliston.  Such  shall  be  the  fate,  sooner  or  later,  of  all 
who  dare  to  thwart  me." 

Her  eyes  llamed  upon  the  shrinking  man  beside  her, 
with  an  expression  that  made  him  quake.  A  grim  smile 
of  self-satisfied  power  broke  over  her  dark  face  as  she 
observed  it,  and  her  voice  had  a  steely  tone  of  command, 
as  she  said  : 

"  Now  for  the  child.  It  must  be  immediately  disposed 
of." 

"  And  sheV  said  the  doctor,  pointing  to  the  bed. 

"  I  shall  attend  to  that." 

"  If  you  like,  madam,  I  will  save  you  the  trouble." 

"  No,  sir,"  she  replied,  sharply;  "though  in  life  my 
enemy,  her  remains  shall  never  be  given  up  to  the  dis- 
secting-knife.  I  have  not  forgotten  she  is  a  gentleman's 
daughter,  and  as  such  she  shall  be  interred.  Now  you 
may  go  Wrap  the  child  in  this,  and — return  ivtthout 
herr 

"  You  shall  be  obeyed,  madam,"  said  Doctor  Wise 
man,  catching  the  infection  of  her  reckless  spirit.     Me 
stooped  and  raised  the  infant,  who  was  still  in  a  deep 
sleep. 


y\\ 


THE    DEATH    OF    ESTHER, 


n 


lideous,  ai 

J  the  mur 
The  dpcp 
heard  sa\5 
5  windows. 
)S  of  Mrs. 
ace  of  the 
she  turned 

y  of  which 
lastly  face 
IS  of  Squire 
Iter,  of  all 

3cside  her, 
grim  smile 
face  as  she 
command, 

ly  disposed 

ebed. 

rouble." 
in  life  my 

to  the  dis- 

entleman's 
Now  you 

irn  without 

ctor  Wise 
spirit     He 
1  in  a  deep 


'•% 


Muffling  it  carefully  in  the  shawl,  he  followeo  the 
ikdy  from  the  room,  and  cautiously  quitted  the  house. 

The  storm  had  now  passed  away  ;  the  piercing  wind 
had  ciedout,  and  tiie  midnight  moon  sailed  in  unclouded 
majesty  throuc^h  the  deep  blue  sky,  studded  with  myriads 
of  bun  ing  stars. 

The  cool  night  air  restored  him  completely  to  him- 
self. 

IJoldaig  the  still  sleeping  infant  closer  in  his  arms,  he 
hurried  on,  until  he  stood  on  the  sloping  bank  command- 
ing a  view  (.>f  tlie  bay. 

The  tide  was  rising.  The  waves  came  splashing  in  on 
the  beach — the  white  foam  gleaming  coldly  brilliant  in 
the  moonlight.  The  waters  beyond  looked  cold,  and 
sluggish,  and  dark — moaning  in  a  strange,  dreary  way 
as  they  swept  over  the  rocks.  How  could  he  commit  the 
slumbering  infant  to  these  merciless  waves  ?  Depraved 
and  guilty  as  he  was,  he  hesitated.  It  lay  so  confidingly 
in  his  arms,  slumbering  so  sweetly,  that  his  heart  smote 
him.     Yet  it  must  be  done. 

He  descended  carefully  to  the  beach,  and  laying  his 
living  bundle  on  the  snowy  sands,  stood  like  Hagar,  « 
distance  off,  to  see  it  die. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes,  he  knew,  the  waves  would 
have  washed  it  far  away. 

As  he  stood,  with  set  teeth  and  folded  arms,  the  merry 
jingle  of  approaching  uleigh -bells  broke  upon  his  startled 
ear.  They  were  evidently  approaching  the  place  where 
ne  stood.  Moved  by  a  sudden  impulse  of  terror,  he 
turned  and  fled  from  the  spot. 

Guilt  is  ever  cowardl) .  He  sped  on,  scarcely  know- 
ing whither  he  went,  until  in  his  blind  haste  he  ran  against 
a  watchman. 

The  unexpected  shock  sent  both  rolling  oTcr  in  Um 
pnow,  which  considerably  cooled  th©  fever  in  Doctor 


v.r 
I 


(•-:•' 


J. 

.!*. 


i4 


THE    ASTROLOGEML 


Wiseman's  blood.  The  indignant  "guardian  of  niglit," 
with  an  exclamation  which  wouldn't  look  wcil  in  print; 
laid  hold  of  the  doctor's  cullar.  But  there  was  vigor  in 
Doctor  Wiseman's  dwarfed  body,  and  strengtl>iQ  his  long, 
lean  arms ;  and  with  a  violent  effort  he  wrenched 
himself  free  from  the  policeman's  tenacious  grasp,  and 
fled. 

*'  Charley"  started  in  pursuit,  and  seeing  he  wouid 
soon  be  overtaken,  the  doctor  suddenly  darted  into 
the  high,  dark  portico  of  an  imposing-looking  house, 
and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  beholding  the  angry 
watchman  tear  past  like  a  comet,  in  full  pursuit. 


CHAPTER  IIL 


THE    ASTROLOGSIL 


Ke  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 
But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment  ;  he  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  manj  men. 
To  him  the  book  of  night  was  opened  wide, 
And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revealed 
A  marvel  and  a  secret." — Byron. 


i    ' 


i  !■ 


jAVING  assured  himself  that  all  danger  wak 

past,  Doctor  Wiseman  v/as  about  to  start  from 

the  building,  when  a  sudden  moonbeam  fell 

on  the  polished  door-plate,  and  he  started  back 

to  see  the  name  it  revealed. 

"The  astrologer,  Ali  Hamed  !"  he  exclaimed.    **Now 

what  foul  fiend  has  driven  me  to  his  accursed  den  to 

night  ?    'Tis  said  he  can  read  the  future  ;  and  surely  no 

man  ever  needed  to  know  it  more  than  I.     Can  it  be  that 


:;i 


m 


THE    AUTROLOGSM, 


>5 


of  night," 
il  in  print; 
18  vigor  in 
in  his  long, 

wrenched 
grasp,  and 

he  would 
arted  into 
ng  house, 
the  angry 
it. 


en. 


inger  wai 
start  from 
beam  fell 
rted  back 

L    ''Now 
d  den  to 
lurel/  no 
it  b^  thai 


the  hand  of  destiny  has  driven  me  here,  to  ihow  me  what 
is  yet  to  conic.     Well,  it  is   useless  going  home  or  at 
tempting  to  sleep  lo-night  ;  so,  Ali  ilunied,  I  sliall  try 
what  your  maijicul  blnck  iirt  can  do  for  inc." 

He  rang  the  bell  siiarply,  but  nicjwient  after  moment 
[Kissed,  and  no  one  came.  I^(jsii  g  all  patience,  he  again 
rang  a  deafening  peal,  which  echoed  and  re-echoed 
ihrcjugh  the  house. 

Presently  the  sound  of  footsteps  clattering  down  stairs 
fctruck  his  ear,  and  iii  a  moment  more  the  d(jor  was  cau- 
tiously opened,  and  a  dark,  swarthy  face  protruded 
tlirough  the  opening.  Seeing  but  one,  he  stood  aside  to 
b'.iOW  him  to  enter,  and  then  securely  locked  and  bolted 
the  door. 

"  The  astrologer,  Ali  Hamed,  resides  here  ?"  said  the 
doctor. 

Accustomed  to  visitors  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night,  the  man  betrayed  no  surprise  at  the  unreasou«ble 
time  he  had  taken  to  inquire,  but  answered  quietly  in  the 
affirmative. 

"  Can  1  see  him  ?" 

'*I  think  so;  step  in  here  one  moment,  and  I  wil 
see." 

He  ushered  Dr.  Wiseman  into  a  small  and  plainly 
furnished  parlor,  while  he  again  went  up  stairs.  In  a 
few  moments  he  reappeared,  and,  bidding  his  visitor  fol- 
low him,  led  the  way  up  the  long  staircase  through  a 
spacious  suite  of  apartments,  and  finally  into  a  long, 
dark  room,  where  the  astrologer  usually  received  visi- 
tors. 

The  doctor  glanced  around  with  intense  curiosity 
not  unmingled  with  awe.  The  floor  wfis  painted  black, 
and  the  walls  were  hung  with  dark  tapestry,  cov- 
ered with  :dl  manner  of  cabalistic  figures.  Skulls, 
crucibles,  magic  mirrors,  tame  serpents,  vipers,  and  all 


7/ 


n 


t6 


THE    ASTROLOGER, 


\ 


manner   of   hideous  things  were   scattered    piofutel| 

around. 

While  the  doctor  still  stood  contemplating  the  strange 
things  around  him,  the  door  opened  and  the  astrologer 
himself  entered.  He  was  an  imposing-looking  person- 
age, tall  and  majestic,  with  grave,  Asiatic  features,  and 
arrayed  with  Eastern  magnificence.  He  bent  his  head 
with  grave  dignity  in  return  to  the  doctor's  profound 
bow,  and  stood  for  a  few  moments  silently  regarding 
him. 

"  You  would  know  the  future?"  said  the  astrologer, 
at  length,  in  his  slow,  impressive  voice. 

"  Such  is  my  business  here  to-night." 

"  You  would  have  your  horoscope  cast,  probablj  ?*' 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  give  me  the  day  and  hour  of  your  birth,  and 
return  to-morrow  morning." 

"  No,  I  cannot  wait  until  then  ;  I  must  know  all  to- 
night." 

The  astrologer  bowed,  and  after  many  tedious  pre- 
liminaries, directed  the  doctor  to  quit  the  room  until  he 
should  send  for  him.  Dr.  Wiseman  then  entered  one  of 
t.he  long  suite  of  apartments  through  which  he  had 
passed,  and  seated  himself  in  a  state  of  feverish  anxiety 
to  hear  the  result.  Some  time  elapsed  ere  the  swarthy 
individual  who  had  admitted  him  presented  himself  at 
the  door  and  announced  that  the  astrologer  was  ready  to 
:cv'eive  him. 

Dr.  Wiseman  found  Ali  Hamed  standing  beside  a 
smoking  caldron,  with  his  crcss-bon«s,  and  lizards,  and 
mystic  figures  around  him,  awaiting  his  entrance. 

Not  much  given  to  credulity,  the  doctor  determined 
to  test  his  skill  before  placing  implicit  belief  in  his  pre- 
dictions ;  and  therefore,  bluntly  announcing  his  skepti* 
cism,  he  demanded  to  know  something  ol  the  past. 


% 

M. 


'''k 


THE    ASTROLC  GEM. 


profuiei| 

the  strango 
J  astrologer 
ing  person- 
;atures,  and 
It  his  head 
s  profound 
'  regarding 

astrologer, 


obably  ?" 

r  birth,  and 

:now  all  to- 

sdious  prc- 
>m  until  he 
ered  one  of 
ch  he  had 
ish  anxiety 
he  swarthy 
himself  at 
as  ready  to 

g  beside  a 
izards,  and 
nee. 

determined 
in  his  prc- 
his  skepti* 
I  past. 


"  You  are  a  widower,  with  one  child,"  said  the  astrolo- 
ger, calmly. 

The  doctor  bowed  assent. 

"  Vou  are  not  rich,  but  avaricious ;  there  is  nothing 
TG'i  would  not  do  for  money.  You  are  liked  by  none  ; 
hv  nature  you  are  treaclierous,  cunning,  and  unscrupu- 
lous ;  your  handr.  are  dyed,  and  your  heart  is  black  with 
crime  ;  you '''' 

"Enough!"  interrupted  the  doctor,  turning  as  pale 
as  his  saffron  visage  would  permit;  "no  more  of  the 
past.     What  has  th«  future  in  store  for  me?" 

"  A  life  of  disgrace,  and  death  on  the  scaffold!" 

A  suppressed  cry  of  horror  burst  from  the  white  lips 
of  the  doctor,  who  reeled  as  if  struck  by  some  sudden 
blow. 

"  To-night,"  continued  the  astrologer,  unheeding  the 
interruption,  '''■  a  chUd  has  been  born  whose  destiny  shall  bt 
united  with  yours  through  life;  some  strange,  mystic  tie  will 
bind  you  together  for  a  time.  But  the  hand  of  this  child  will 
yet  bring  your  head  to  the  halter." 

He  paused.  Dr.  Wiseman  stood  stiff,  rooted  to  the 
ground  with  horror. 

"  Such  is  your  future  ;  you  may  go,"  said  the  Egyp- 
tian, waving  his  hand. 

With  his  blood  freezing  in  his  veins,  with  hands 
trembling  and  lips  palsied  with  horror,  he  quitted  the 
house.  An  hour  had  scarcely  passed  since  his  entrance  ; 
but  that  hour  seemed  to  have  added  ten  years  to  his  age. 
He  felt  not  the  cold,  keen  air  as  he  slowly  moved  along, 
every  sense  paralyzed  by  the  appalling  prediction  he 
had  just  heard. 

"  Die  on  the  scaffold  !"  His  crime  deserved  it.  But  the 
bare  thought  made  liis  blood  run  cold.  And  through  a 
child  born  that  nigiit  lie  was  to  perish  !  Was  u  the  child 
of  Esther  Oianmore?    Oil,  absurd  !  it  had  been  swept 


I  'ii' 


.V, 


'' '  ''^ 


'•  >& 


M 


.mu 


»B 


THE    ASTROLOGER. 


■■'% 


* 

■  \ 

It 

i  i 

i 

J 

.   1 

1      ; 

1 

1 

;  i 

1 

1 

I  . 

i . 

■ 

ill 


far  aviray  by  the  waves  long  ere  this.  Whose,  then, 
could  it  be  ?  There  were  more  children  born  this  Christ- 
mas Eve  than  that  one  ;  but  how  could  any  one  ever 
know  what  he  had  done?  No  one  knew  of  it  liut  Mrs. 
Oranmore ;  and  he  well  knew  she  would  never  tell. 

He  plunged  blindly  onward  through  the  heaps  o( 
drifted  snow,  heeding  not,  caring  not,  whither  his  steps 
wended.  Once  or  twice  he  met  a  watchman  going  his 
rounds,  and  he  shrank  away  like  the  guilty  thing  that  he 
was,  dreading  lest  the  word  ''mufder"  should  be  stampea 
on  his  brow.  He  thought  with  cowardly  terror  of  the 
coming  day,  when  every  eye,  he  fancied,  would  turn 
upon  him  with  a  look  of  suspicion. 

Involuntarily  he  wandered  to  the  sea-shore,  and 
stood  on  the  bank  where  he  had  been  one  nour  before. 
The  waves  were  dashing  now  almost  to  his  feet ;  no 
trace  of  any  living  thing  was  to  be  seen  around. 

'*  It  has  perished,  then  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  feeling 
of  intense  relief.  "  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it  !  //,  then,  is 
not  the  child  which  is  to  cause  my  death.  But,  pshaw  I 
why  do  I  credit  all  that  soi-disant  prophet  told  me  !  Ye. 
he  spoke  so  truly  of  the  past,  I  cannot  avoid  believing 
him.  Perish  on  the  scaffold  I  Heavens  !  if  I  felt  sure 
of  it,  I  would  go  mad.  Ha  !  what  is  that?  Can  it  be 
the  ghastly  white  face  of  a  child  ?" 

He  leaned  over  and  bent  down  to  see,  but  nothing 
met  his  eye  save  the  white  caps  of  the  waves. 

"  Fool  that  I  am  !"  he  exclaimed,  turning  away  im« 
patiently.  "  Well  might  stony  Madam  Oranmore  deeir 
me  a  coward  did  she  see  me  now.  I  will  hasten  back  ta 
her,  and  report  the  success  of  my  mission." 

He  turned  away,  and  strode  in  the  direction  of  her 
house  as  fast  as  he  could  walk  over  the  frozen  ground, 
quite  unconscious  of  what  was  at  that  same  moment 
passing  in  another  quarter  of  the  city  on  that  samo 
eventful  night. 


"4 


\  ' 


MAMJtY    OMAJSTMOAX 


hose,  then, 
this  Christ- 
one  ever 
but  Mrs. 
;r  tell. 

heaps  of 
r  his  stepa 
going  his 
ing  that  he 
be  stampea 
ror  of  the 
rould  turn 

shore,  and 
)ur  before, 
is  feet ;  no 
id. 

h  a  feeling 
(ty  then,  is 
ut,  pshaw ! 
me !  Ye. 
,  believing 
I  felt  sure 
Can  it  be 

It  nothing 

away  izn< 
aore  deeir 
5U  back  18 

on  of  her 
n  ground, 
B  moment 
that   samo 


CHAPTER  IV. 


BARRY    ORANMORS. 


"  Pray  for  the  dead- 
Why  for  the  dead,  who  are  at  rest  ? 
Pray  for  the  living,  in  whose  breast 
The  struggle  between  right  and  wr«af 
Is  raging,  terrible  and  strong." — LoNontZxsw 

T  was  a  luxuriously  furnished  apartment.  A 
:hick,  soft  carpet,  where  blue  violets  peeped 
from  glowing  green  leaves  so  naturally  that 
one  involuntarily  stooped  to  cull  them,  cover- 
ed the  floor.  Rare  old  paintings  adorned  the 
wall,  and  the  cornices  were  fretted  with  gold.  The  heavy 
crimson  curtains  vshut  out  the  sound  of  the  wintry  vvind, 
and  a  glowing  coal  lire  shed  a  living,  radiant  glow  over 
everything  around.  The  air  was  redolent  of  intoxicating 
perfume,  breathing  of  summer  and  sunshine.  On  the 
marble-topped  center-table  stood  bottles  and  glasses,  a 
cigar-case,  a  smoking-cap,  and  a  pair  of  elegant,  silver- 
mounted  pistols.  It  was  evidently  a  gentleman's  room, 
judging  by  the  disorder.  A  beautiful  marble  Flora 
stood  in  one  corner,  arrayed  in  a  gaudy  dressing-gown, 
and  opposite  stood  a  dainty  little  Peri  adorned  with  a 
beaver  hat.  Jupiter  himself  was  there,  with  a  violin  sur,- 
pended  gracefully  around  his  neck,  and  Cupid  was  lean- 
ing against  the  wall,  ncels  uppermost,  with  bent  bow, 
e7'd?T\tly  taking  deliberate  aitn  at  the  flies  on  the  ceiling. 
Among  the  many  exquisite  paintings  hanging  on  the 
wall,  there  was  one  of  surpassing  beauty  ;  it  represented 
a  bleak  hill-side,  with  a  flock  of  sheep  grazing  on  the 
■canty  herbage,  a  lowering,  troubled  sky  above  *  andoof 


,.\. 


■*i 


M' 


i.i- 


fc 


■in 
■''••t'l 


I.  i' 


^'i' 


iC. 


m 


»■  .'i 


I     < 


.] 


9«  ^W^i?  Y    ORANMORE. 

could  almost  see  the  fitful  gusts  of  wind  sighicg  ovei 
the  gray  hill-tops.  Standing  erect  was  a  )'oung  girl — a 
mere  child  in  years — her  long  golden  hair  streaming 
wildly  in  the  breeze,  her  straw  hat  sv/inging  in  her  hand, 
her  fair,  bright  face  and  large  blue  eyes  raised  with 
niingled  shyness  and  sauciness  to  a  horseman  bendin_j 
'.?■  u  her,  as  if  speaking.  His  fiery  steed  seemed  pawin:^ 
'viih  impatience;  but  his  rider  held  him  with  a  firm 
.^^*»ad.  He  was  a  tall,  slight  youth,  with  raven  black  hair 
and  eyes,  and  a  dark,  handsome  face.  There  was  a  wild 
look  about  the  dark  horseman  and  darker  steed,  remind- 
ing one  of  the  Black  Horseman  of  the  Hartz  Mountains. 
Underneath  was  written,  in  a  dashing  masculine  hand, 
"  The  first  meeting."  There  was  something  strikingly; 
vividly  life-like  in  the  whole  scene  ;  even  the  characters — 
the  slender  girl,  with  her  pretty,  piquant  face,  and  the 
handsome,  graceful  rider — were  more  like  living  beings 
than  creations  of  fancy. 

And — yes,  standing  by  the  fire,  his  arm  resting  on 
the  mantel,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  hearth,  stood  the  orig- 
inal of  the  picture.  The  same  tall,  superb  form  ;  the 
same  clear  olive  complexion  ;  the  same  curling  locks  of 
jet,  and  black  eyes  of  fire  ;  the  same  firm,  proud  mouth 
shaded  by  a  thick  black  mustache — there  he  stood,  his 
eyes  riveted  on  the  glowing  coals,  his  brow  knit  as 
though  in  deep  and  painful  thought.  Now  and  then  the 
muscles  of  his  face  would  twitch,  and  his  white  hands 
involuntarily  clench  at  some  passing  thought. 

At  intervals  the  noise  of  doors  shutting  and  opening 
r^'ould  reach  his  ear,  and  he  would  start  as  though  he 
had  received  a  galvanic  shock,  and  listen  for  a  moment 
intently.  Nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  crackling  of 
the  fire  it.  such  times,  and  again  he  would  relapse  into 
gloomy  musing. 

'What  a  fool  I  have  been  !"  he  exclaimed^  at  length 


BARRY    OSANMORR. 


i> 


ghicig  ovei 

uag  girl— a 

■  streaming 
in  her  hand, 
raised  with 
m  benciiii  »■ 
led  pawin:^ 
vith  a  firm 
1  black  hair 

was  a  wild 
ed,  remind- 
Mountains. 
Liline  hand, 

strikingly; 
haracters — 
ice,  and  the 
nng  beings 

resting  on 
>d  the  orig- 

form  ;  the 
3g  locks  of 
oud  mouth 
5  stood,  his 
>w  knit  as 
ad  then  the 
hite  hands 

id  opening 

though  he 

a  moment 

rackling  of 

elapse  into 

rAt  lenirth 


between  his  clcncfied  locth  as  he  shook  back  wi'.b  fierc? 
impatience  his  globsy  liair,  **  tu  burden  myseJf  wi'.n  thi3 
girl  !  Dolt,  idiot  iiiat  I  was,  tu  allow  myself  to  be  be 
witched  by  her  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair  !  What  deaiou 
could  have  possessed  rae  to  make  her  my  wife  ?  M^ 
wife  !  Just  fancy  me  presenting  that  little  blushing, 
shrinking  Galway  girl  as  ray  wife  to  my  lady  mother, 
or  to  that  princess  of  coquettes,  Lizzie  Erliston  !  I  wi:h 
to  heaven  I  had  blown  my  braius  cut  instead  of  putlij.^ 
my  head  into  such  a  confoundf,d  noose — making  myseil 
the  laughing-stock  of  all  my  gt-Jlant  friends  and  lady 
acquaintances  !  No,  by  heav'en  !  they  shall  never  laugii 
at  Barry  O  ran  more.  Eveleen  shall  be  sent  back  to  her 
friends.  They  will  be  glad  enough  to  get  her  on  any 
terms  ;  and  she  will  soon  forget  me,  and  be  happy  tend- 
ing her  sheep  once  more.  And  yet — and  yet — pooi 
Eveleen  !"  he  said,  suddenly,  pausing  before  the  picture, 
while  his  dark  eyes  filled  with  a  softer  light,  and  his 
voice  assumed  a  gentler  tone ;  "  she  loves  me  so  well  yet 
— far  more  than  I  do  her.  I  hardly  like  the  thought  of 
sending  her  away  ;  but  it  cannot  be  helped.  My 
mother's  purse  is  running  low,  I  fear  ;  Erliston's  coffers 
a  'St  replenish  it.  Yes,  \.\i^c^  is  no  help  for  it  ;  Eveleen 
It  j.st  go,  and  I  must  marry  lit,  e  Lizzie.  Poor  child; 
she  left  home,  and  friends,  and  all  for  me  ;  and  it  docs 
seem  a  villainous  act  in  me  to  desert  her  for  another 
But  go  she  must ;  there  is  no  alternative." 

He  was  walking  up  and  down  in  his  intense  excrtc 
ment — sometimes  pausipg  suddenly  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  walking  on  faster  than  before.  Thus  half  aa 
iiour  passed,  during  which  he  seemed  to  have  formed 
some  determination  ;  for  his  mouth  grew  stern,  and  his 
Clear  eyes  cold  and  calm,  as  he  once  more  leaned  against 
the  mantel,  and  fell  into  thought. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  a  woman  entered.  She 


'AM 


s« 


BARRY    ORANMORM. 


was  a  stout,  corpulent  person,  with  coarse,  bloated  face, 
and  small,  bleared  eyes.  As  she  entered,  she  cast  an 
affectionate  glance  toward  the  brandy  bottle  on  the  table 
— a  glance  w'lich  said  plainly  she  would  have  no  objec- 
lion  to  tryinj  its  quality.  She  was  arrayed  for  the 
street,  witli  a  large  cloak  enveloping  her  ample  person, 
and  a  warm  quilted  hood  tied  over  her  substantial 
double  chin. 

"  Well,  sir,  I'll  be  niovin',  I  reckon,"  said  the  woman, 
adjusting  her  cloak.  "  The  young  lady's  doing  very 
nicely,  and  the  baby's  sleeping  like  an  angel.  So  they'll 
get  along  very  well  to-night  without  me." 

The  young  man  started  at  the  sound  of  her  Toice, 
and,  looking  up,  said  carelessly  : 

**  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?     Are  you  for  leaving  T* 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  it's  time  I  was  home  and  to  bed.  I  ain't 
used  to  bein'  up  late  nights  now — don't  agree  with  my 
constitution  ;  it's  sorter  delicate.  Shouldn't  wonder  il 
I  was  fallin'  into  a  decline." 

The  quizzical  dark  eyes  of  the  young  man  surveyed 
the  rotund  person  before  him,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he 
burst  out  laughing. 

"Well,  now,  if  you  was  in  a  decline  yourself,  you'd 
laugh  t'other  side  of  your  mouth,  I  reckon,"  said  the  of- 
fended matron.  "  S'pose  you  think  it's  very  funny  laugh- 
i:ag  at  a  poor,  lone  'oman,  -without  chick  nor  child.  But 
I  can  tell  you " 

"  Ten  thousand  pardons,  madam,  for  my  offense,"  he 
Luterrupted,  courteously,  though  there  was  still  a  wicked 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  Pray  sit  down  for  a  moment ;  1 
have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"  Well,  now,  it  don't  seem  exactly  right  to  sit  here 
with  you  at  this  hour  of  the  night.  Howsomever,  I  will, 
to  oblige  you,"  and  the  worthy  dame  placed  her  ample 
frame  in  a  cushioned  elbow-chair. 


BARRY    O  RAN  MORS, 


II 


i>loRted  face, 
she  cast  an 
on  the  table 
ire  no  objec- 
Td  for  the 
iplc  person, 
substantial 

the  woman, 

doing  very 

,     So  they'll 

\i  her  T«ice, 

bed.  I  ain't 
ee  with  my 
t  wonder  ii 

in  surveyed 
\  himself  he 

irself,  you'd 
said  the  of- 
unny  laugh- 
child.     But 

oflfense,"  he 
ill  a  wicked 
moment ;  1 

to  sit  here 

levcr,  I  will, 

her  ample 


"  Perhaps  this  argument  may  aid  -r.  overcoming  your 
scruples,"  said  the  young  man,  filling  her  a  glass  cf  wiae, 
and  throwing  himself  on  a  lounge  ;  "  and  now  to  business. 
You  are  a  widow  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  My  blessed  husband  died  a  martyr  to  his 
country — died  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty.  He  was  a 
'.nistom-house  officer,  find  felt  it  his  duty  always  to  exam* 
ine  liquors  betore  destroying  them.  Well,  one  day  he 
took  too  much,  caught  the  devil-rum  tremendous,  and 
left  me  a  disconsolate  widdcr.  The  coroner  of  the  jury 
set  onto  him,  and " 

"  There,  there  !  never  mind  particulars.  You  hay*  no 
children  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  old  woman  stiffly,  rather  offended  by 
his  unceremonious  interruption. 

"  If  you  were  well  paid,  you  would  have  no  objection 
to  taking  one  and  bringing  it  up  as  your  own  ?"  said  the 
young  man,  speaking  quietly,  though  there  was  a  look  of 
restless  anxiety  in  his  fine  eyes. 

"  Well,  no  ;  I'd  have  no  objection,  if "  and  here 

she  slapped  her  pocket  expressively,  by  way  of  finishing 
the  sentence. 

"  Money  shall  be  no  object ;  but  remember,  the  world 
must  think  it  is  your  own — /  am  never  to  be  troubled 
about  it  more." 

"  All  right — I  understand,"  said  the  nurse,  nodding 
her  head  sagely.    "  S'pose  it's  the  little  one  in  there  ?" 

"  It  is.     Can  you  take  it  away  now  V* 

"To-night?" 

/*  Yes." 

"  But  laws  !  ain't  it  too  cold  and  stormy.  Better  wait 
till  to-piorrow." 

"  No,"  was  the  quick  and  peremptory  answer.  "  To- 
night, now,  within  this  very  hour,  it  must  be  removed ; 
and  I  am  never  to  hear  of  it  more.' 


It 


4 

■.  m 

•'Ml 


•I' 


to: 

fn-  f,r„ 

ii,.  'J»fl 


I    I 

I  : 
I  1 


'I'  I'l 


("i; 


':['. 


!! 


S4 


BAHRY    O  RAN  MORE. 


« 


And  the  poor  young  lady  ?    Seems  sorter  hard,  now 
don't  it?"  she'll  take  on  wonderfully,  I'm  feured." 

A  spasm  of  pain  passed  orer  his  handsorjc  face,  and 
for  a  moment  he  was  silent.  Then,  looking  up,  he  said, 
with  brief  sternness : 

"  It  cannot  be  helped.  You  must  go  without  dis 
turbing  her,  and  1  will  break  the  news  to  her  myself. 
Here  is  my  purse  for  the  present.  What  is  your  ad- 
dress ?" 

The  woman  gave  it. 

"  Very  well,  you  shall  hear  from  me  regularly  ;  but 
should  we  ever  meet  again,  in  the  street  or  elsewhere,  you 
are  not  to  know  me,  and  you  must  forget  all  that  has 
transpired  to-night." 

**  Hum  !"  said  the  fat  widow,  doubtfully. 

"  And  now  you  had  better  depart.  The  storm  has  al- 
most ceased,  and  the  night  is  passing  away.  Is  Ev — if 
my  wife  awake  ?" 

"No  ;  I  left  her  sleeping." 

"  So  much  the  better.  You  can  take  U  with  you  with 
out  disturbing  her.    Go." 

The  buxom  widow  arose  and  quitted  the  room.  Oran 
more  lay  on  a  lounge,  rigidly  motionless,  his  face  hiddev 
by  iiis  hand.  A  fierce  storm  was  raging  in  his  Lreast— 
"the  struggle  between  right  and  wrong."  Pride  and 
ambition  struggled  wl;:h  love  and  remorse,  but  the  fear 
of  the  world  conquered  :  and  when  the  old  woman  re- 
entered, bearing  a  sleeping  infant  in  her  arms,  he  look^^c 
up  as  composedly  as  herself. 

"Pretty  little  dear,"  said  the  widow,  wrapping  tbf 
child  in  a  thick  woolen  shawl,  "  how  nicely  she  sleeps  • 
Very  image  of  her  it  other,  and  she's  the  beautifuiest 
girl  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  I  gave  her  some  paregoric 
to  make  her  sleep  till  I  go  home.  Well,  good-night,  sir 
Our  businecs  is  over." 


I 


'^n 


RARRY    ORANMORS. 


35 


r  nard,  now 
red." 

le  face,  and 
up,  he  said, 

rithout  dis 
her  myself. 
is  your  ad- 


ularly ;  but 
ewhere,  you 
ill  that  has 


torm  has  al- 
.     IiEv— ii 


h  you  with 

oom.  Oraa 
face  hiddev 
lis  Lreast — 

Pride  and 
Dut  the  fear 

woman  re 
s,  he  look^^c 

rapping  the 
she  sleeps  * 
beautiful  est 
;  paregoric 
d-night,  sir 


"Yes,  good-night.  Remember  the  secret  \  forjjei 
what  has  transpired  to-night,  and  your  fortune  is  made 
You  will  care  for  //  "—and  he  pointed  to  the  child — "  as 
though  it  were  your  own." 

"  Be  sure  I  will,  dear  little  duck.  Who  could  help 
liking  such  a  sweet,  pretty  uarling  ?  I  s'pose  you'll  come 
io  see  it  sometimes,  sir  ?" 

"  No.  Vou  can  send  me  word  of  its  welfare  cow  and 
then.     Go,  madam,  go." 

The  widow  turned  to  leave  the  room,  and,  unobserved 
by  the  young  man,  who  had  once  more  thrown  himself 
0;.i  ^vs  face  on  the  sofa,  she  seized  a  well-filled  brandy- 
flask  and  concealed  it  beneath  her  shawl. 

Quitting  the  house,  she  walked  as  rapidly  as  her 
bulksome  proportions  would  permit  over  the  snowy 
ground.  The  road  leading  to  her  hom.e  lay  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  sea-shore  ;  and,  as  she  reached  the  beach,  she 
was  thoroughly  chilled  by  the  cold,  in  spite  of  her  warm 
wrappings. 

"  It's  as  cold  as  the  Arctic  Ocean,  and  I've  hecrd  say 
that's  the  coldest  country  in  the  world.  A  drop  of  com- 
fort won't  come  amiss  just  now.  Lucky  I  thought  on'l. 
This  little  monkey's  as  sound  as  a  top.  It's  my  'pinion 
that  young  gent's  no  better  than  he  ought  to  be,  to  treat 
such  a  lovely  young  lady  in  this  fashion.  Well,  it's  no 
business  of  mine,  so's  I'm  well  paid.  Lor  !  I  hope  1 
hain't  gin  it  too  much  paregoric ;  wouldn't  for  anything 
'twould  die.  S'pose  I'd  get  no  more  tie  then.  That's 
prime,"  she  added,  placing  the  flask  to  her  lips  and  drain- 
ing a  long  draught. 

As  the  powerful  fumes  of  the  brandy  arose  to  hei 
head,  the  worthy  lady's  senses  became  rather  confused  f 
tnd,  falling  rather  than  sitting  on  the  bank  the  child, 
muffled  like  a  mummy  in  its  plaid,  roiled  from  her  arms 
Into  a  snow-wreath.   At  the  same  moment  the  loud  ring- 


'ii!i 


^4n 


It     'J'. 


r%^ 


>' 


,1 


1, 


■■Il    ,i  ! 
.4'       I 


i\n 


'i'tiii'K 


-;.l9!i 


'$•  'BARRY    OR  AN  MORS, 

Ing  of  bells  and  the  cry  of  "  Fire  !  fire  !"  fell  Jp::  *#f 
can  It  roused  her  ;  and,  in  the  excitement  of  lU  :io» 
ment  forgcttini;  her  litile  charge,  she  sprang  up  ii  rcll 
as  she  could,  and,  by  u  strange  fascination,  was  i#)'>a  in- 
voluntarily drawn  away  to  mingle  with  the  crowii,  who 
were  hurrying  in  the  direction  of  her  abode. 

Scarcely  five  miuiaes  before.  Dr.  Wiseman  had  (|jiit ted 
that  very  spot  :  and  there,  within  a  few  yards  ol  each 
other,  the  two  unconscious  infants  lay,  little  kncrring 
how  singularly  their  future  lives  were  to  be  united — little 
dreaming  how  fatal  an  influence  one  of  them  was  yet  to 
wield  oyer  him. 

Some  time  after,  when  the  flames  were  extinguished 
and  the  crowd  had  quitted  the  streets  for  their  beds — 
when  the  unb'-oken  silence  of  coming  morning  had  fallen 
over  the  city — the  widow  returned  to  seek  for  her  child. 

But  she  sought  in  vain  ;  the  rising  tide  had  swept 
over  the  bank,  and  was  again  retreating  sullenly  to  the 
sea. 

Sobered  by  terror  and  remorse,  the  wretched  woman 
trod  up  and  down  the  dreary,  deserted  snowy  beach 
until  morning  broke ;  but  she  sought  and  searched  lo 
vain.    The  child  was  gone. 


\ 


-1 


1 


MOUNT    SUNuET 


37 


ip :  r    Iff 

lU  :io- 
>  «i  yell 

u  yya  in* 
wil,  who 


CHAPTER  V. 


MOUNT    SUNSET    HALU 


dfj  fitted 
s  ot  each 
kncrring 
sd — little 
is  yet  to 

Dguishcd 
r  beds — 
lad  fallen 
;r  child, 
id  swept 
ily  to  the 

I  woman 
7y  beach 
irched  In 


A  joUj  place,  'twas  said»  in  days  of  old.** — WoUMnro&Ta 


p^'Sl  n  E    jingle   of    the    approaching^    sleigh-be  Ih, 
'"nuH     wliichhad  fris:jhtened  Dr.  Wiseman  from  tht: 


tMi 


vi.u^»ir...:«  |^j(..|^(^i^^  i^^fi  been  unheard  by  the  drunker: 
nurse  ;  but  ten  minutes  after  she  had  left,  a 
sleigh  came  slowly  along  the  narrow,  slipperjf 
path. 

It  contained  but  two  persons.  One  was  an  elderly 
woman,  wrapped  and  muffled  in  furs.  A  round,  rosy, 
cheery  face  beamed  out  from  a  black  velvet  bonnet,  and 
two  small,  twinkling,  merry  gray  eyes,  lit  up  the  pleas- 
antest  countenance  in  the  world. 

Her  companion,  who  sat  in  the  driver's  seat,  was  a 
tall,  jolly-looking  darkey,  with  a  pair  of  huge,  rolling 
eyes,  looking  like  a  couple  of  snow-drifts  in  a  black 
ground.  A  towering  fur  cap  ornamented  the  place 
where  the  "*  wool  ought  to  grow,"  and  was  the  only  por- 
tion of  this  son  of  darkness  which  could  be  discovered 
for  hisB  voluminous  wrappings. 

The  path  was  wet,  slippery,  and  dangerous  in  the  ex: 
treme.     The  horses  were  restive,  and  a  singl«,.ialse  step 
would  have  ovcjrturned  them  into  the  water. 

"  Missus  Scour,  if  you  please,  missus,  you'd  better 
git  out/'  vsaid  the  negro,  reining  in  the  horses,  in  evident 
alarm  ;  "  this  yer's  the  wussest  road  I'se  ever  trabeled. 
iliese  wishious  brutes  '11  spili  me  and  you,  api  the 
sleigh,  and  then  the  Lor  oaly  knows  what'U  ever  become 
of  us." 


S 


•  *  i 


■ft 

*  Id 


! 

:-  -la: 


"ii 


MOUNT    SUNSET    ffALL. 


ill  '■• 

4'' 


'ii.  '*' 


I  .',    ; 

i'ri'.'i 


^  'I 


**  Do  yoti  think  there's  any  danger,  Jupiter  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Gower  (for  such  was  the  name  her  sable  attendant 
had  transformed  into  Scour),  in  a  voice  of  alarm. 

*'This  road's  sort  o'  'spicious  anyhow,"  replied 
'iipiter.  "  I'd  'vise  you.  Missus  Scour,  mum,  to  get  out 
.iiud  walk  till  we  is  past  this  yer  beach.  'Sides  the  snow, 
'.his  yer  funnel ly  beach  is  full  o*  holes,  an'  if  we  gol 
'.ipsot  inter  one  of  'em,  ole  marse  might  whistle  for  you 
and  me,  and  the  sleigh  arter  that  !" 

With  much  difficulty,  and  with  any  amount  of  whoa- 
ing,  Jupiter  managed  to  stop  the  sleigh,  and  assisted 
stout  Mrs.  Gower  to  alight.  This  was  no  easy  job,  fo; 
that  worthy  lady  was  rather  unwieldy,  and  panted  like 
a  stranded  porpoise,  as  she  slowly  plunged  through  the 
wet  snow-drifts. 

Suddenly,  above  the  jingling  sleigh-bells,  the  wail  of 
an  infant  met  her  ear.  She  paused  in  amazement,  and 
looked  around.  Again  she  heard  it — this  time  seeming- 
ly at  her  feet.  She  looked  down  and  beheld  a  small, 
dark  bundle,  lying  amid  the  deep  snow. 

Once  more  the  piteous  cry  met  her  ear,  and  stooping 
down,  she  raised  the  little  dark  object  in  her  arms. 

Unfolding  the  shawl,  she  beheld  the  infant  whose 
cries  had  first  arrested  her  ear. 

"Good  heavens!  a  baby  exposed  to  this  weather — 
left  here  to  perish  !"  exclaimed  good  Mrs.  Gower,  in  hor- 
ror. "Poor  little  thing,  it's  half  frozen.  Who  could 
have  done  so  unnatural  a  deed  ?" 

"Laws!  Missus  Scour,  what  ye  g3t  dar ?"  inquired 
Jupiter. 

"  A  baby,  Jupe  !  A  poor  Kttle  helpless  infant  whom 
some  unnatural  wretrh  has  left  here  to  die  !"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Gower,  with  rrcre  indignation  than  she  had  ever 
before  felt  in  her  life. 


m 


MOUNT     SUNSET    HALL, 


iter?"  said 
attendant 
|rm. 

"    replied 

to  get  out 

tiie  snow. 

if  vvc  got 

le  for  you 

of  wlioa- 

d  assisted 

isy  job,  for 

anted  like 

irough  the 

the  wail  of 
sment,  and 
e  seeming, 
d  a  small, 

d  stooping 

irms. 

ant  whose 

weather — 
?er,  in  lior- 
ITho  could 

"  inquired 

ant  whom 
exclaimed 
\  had  evei 


«*  Good  Lor  !  so  'tis  What  vou  gwine  to  do  w  Id  it. 
Missus  Scour,  mum  ?" 

"Do  with  it?"  said  Mrs.  Gower,  looking  at  him  in 
surprise.  "  Why,  take  it  with  me,  of  course.  You 
wouldn't  have  mc  leave  the  poor  infant  here  to  perish, 
would  you  ?" 

*'  'Deed,  Missus  Scour,  I  wouldn't  bring  it  'long  cf  I 
was  you.  Jcs'  'llect  how  tarin'  mad  ole  marse  'H  be  'bo  it 
it.  Don't  never  want  to  see  no  babies  roun'.  Desd, 
honey,  you'd  better  take  my  'vice  an'  leave  it  whar  it 
was,"  said  Jupiter. 

"  What?  Leave  it  here  to  die.  I'm  ashamed  of  you, 
Jupiter,"  said  the  old  lady,  rebukingly. 

"  But  Lor  !  Missus  Scour  !  ole  marse  '11  trow  it  out 
de  winder  fust  thing.  Shouldn't  be  s'prised,  nudder,  e( 
he'd  woUop  me  lor  bringing  it.  Jes'  'fleet  upon  it. 
Missus  Scour,  nobody  can't  put  no  'pendence  onto  him, 
deforsooken  ole  sinner.  Trowed  his  'fernal  ole  stick  at 
lue,  t'other  day,  and  like  to  knock  my  brains  out,  jes'  for 
nothin'  at  all.  'Deed,  honey,  I  wouldn't  try  sich  a  'sper- 
riment,  no  how." 

"  Now,  Jupiter,  you  needn't  say  another  word.  My 
mind's  made  up,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  this  child,  let  *ole 
marse'  rage  as  he  will.  I'm  just  as  sure  as  I  can  be,  that 
*lie  Lord  sent  it  to  me,  to-night,  as  a  Christmas  gift,  in 
place  of  my  poor,  dear  Aurora,  that  he  took  to  heaven," 
said  good  Mrs.  Gower,  folding  the  wailing  infant  closer 
still  to  herwarm,  motherly  bosom. 

"  Sartln,  missus,  in  course  you  knows  best,  but  et 
you'd  only  'fleet.  'Pears  to  me,  ole  marse  '11  tar  roun 
woiser  dan  ever,  wlien  he  sees  it,  and  discharge  you  in 
you  'sponsible  ole  age  o'  life  'count  of  it." 

•'  And  if  he  does  discharge  me,  Jupiter,  after  twenty 
years'  service,  I  have  enough  to  support  myself  and  this 
little  one  to  the  end  of  my  life,  thank  the  Lord  1"  sai4 


•  u 

H 


if 


'  '■A 


fi 


4« 


MOUNT    SUNSET    HALL. 


4.         .  'fl 


i'li , 

1 1  til  ^ 


if:' 

[  Mi- 


!'    i 


ii: 


;  I   1 


'  f    I 


M/s.  Gower,  her  honest,  ruddy  face  all  aglow  with  get* 
crous  enthusiasm. 

"Well,  I  s'pose  'taint  no  sorter  use  talking,"  said 
J'ipiter,  with  a  sigh,  as  he  gathered  up  the  reins  ;  "but 
sf  anything  happens,  jes  'member  I  'vised  you  of  it  'fore- 
"land.  Hero  we  is  on  de  road  now,  so  you'd  better  gei 
:.n  ef  you's  agoin'   to  take  de  little  'un  wid  you." 

With  considerable  squeezing,  and  much  panting,  and 
some  groaning,  good  Mrs.  Gower  was  assisted  into  the 
sleigh,  and  muffled  up  in  the  buffalo  robes. 

Wrapping  the  child  in  her  warm,  fur-lined  mantle,  to 
protect  it  from  the  chill  night  air,  they  sped  merrily 
along  over  the  hard,  frozen  ground. 

Christmas  morning  dawned  bright,  sunshiny,  and 
warm.  The  occupants  of  the  sleigh  had  long  since  left 
the  city  behind  them,  and  were  now  driving  along  the 
more  open  country.  The  keen,  frosty  air  deepened  the 
rosy  glow  on  Mrs.  Gower's  good-humored  face.  Warm- 
ly protected  from  the  cold,  the  baby  lay  sleeping  sweetly 
in  her  arms,  and  even  Jupiter's  sable  face  relaxed  into  a 
grin  as  he  whistled  "  Coal  Black  Rose." 

The  sun  was  about  three  hours  high  when  they  drew 
up  before  a  solitary  inn.  And  here  Jupiter  assisted  Mrs. 
Gower  into  the  house,  while  he  himself  looked  after  his 
horses. 

Mrs.  Gower  was  shown  by  the  hostess  into  the  par- 
lor, where  a  huge  wood-fire  roared  up  the  wide  chim- 
ney. Removing  the  large  shawl  that  enveloped  it,  Mrs. 
Gower  turned  for  the  first  time  to  examine  her   prize 

It  did  not  dider  much  from  other  babies,  save  in  be- 
tng  the  tiniest  little  creature  that  ever  was  seen  ;  with 
imall,  'retty  features,  and  an  unusual  profusion  of 
brown  nair.  As  it  awoke,  it  disclosed  a  pair  of  large 
blue  eyes — rather  vacant-looking,  it  must  be  confessed — 
ftsd  immediately  set  up  a  most  vigorous  squoilimg.  Small 


mi 

H'M  ■  If 


with  get  • 

ng,"  said 
ins  ;  "but 
of  it  'fore- 
better  gei 
1." 

ating,  and 
into  the 

mantle,  to 
;d  merrily 

hiny,  and 
since  left 
along  the 
pened  the 
e.  Warm- 
ig  sweetly 
ced  into  a 

hey  drew 
listed  Mrs. 
.  after  his 

D  the  par- 
ide  chim- 
d  it,  Mrs. 
ler  prize 
ve  in  be- 
ien  ;  with 
fusion  of 
■  of  large 
nfessed — 
ig.  Small 


MOUNT    SUNSET    HALS,  ii 

B8  it  was,  it  evidently  possessed  lungs  that  wcuid  aot 
have  disgraced  a  newsboy,  and  seemed  bent  upon  fully 
exercising  them  ;  for  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Gower's  cooing 
and  kissiiag,  it  cried  and  screamed  "and  would  not  be 
comforted." 

"  Poor  little  dear,  it's  so  hungry,"  said  the  good  old 
lady,  rocking  it  gently.  "  What  a  pretty  little  darling 
it  is.     I'm  sure  it  looks  like  little  Aurora  !" 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  baby  ?"  inquired  the 
hostess,  at  this  moment  entering. 

"  It's  hungry,  poor  thing.  Bring  in  some  warm  milk, 
please/'  replied  Mrs.  Govver. 

The  milk  was  brought,  and  baby,  like  a  sensible 
child,  as  it  doubtless  was,  did  ample  justice  to  it.  Then 
rolling  it  up  in  the  shawl,  Mrs.  Gower  placed  it  in  the 
rocking-chair,  and  left  it  to  its  own  reflections,  while  she 
sat  down  to  a  comfortable  breakfast  of  fragrant  coffee, 
hot  rolls,  and  fried  ham. 

When  breakfast  was  over  Jupiter  brought  round  the 
horses  and  sleigh,  and  Mrs.  Gower  entered,  holding  her 
prize,  and  they  drove  off. 

It  was  noon  when  they  reactied  the  end  of  their  long 
journey,  and  entered  the  little  village  of  St.  Mark's. 
Sloping  upward  from  the  bay  on  one  side,  and  encircled 
by  a  dense  primeval  forest  on  the  other,  the  village 
stood.  St.  Mark's  was  a  great  place  in  the  eyes  of  its 
inhabitants,  and  considered  by  them  the  only  spot  on  the 
globe  fit  for  rational  beings  to  live  in.  It  was  rather  an 
unpretending-looking  place,  though,  to  strangers,  who 
sometimes  came  from  the  city  to  spend  the  not  summer 
months  there,  in  preference  to  any  fashionable  watering- 
place,  k  contained  a  church,  a  school-house,  a  iecture- 
roora,  a  post-office,  and  an  inn. 

b.^t  the  principal  building,  and  pride  of  the  village, 
was  Mo*mt  Sunset  Hall.     It  stood  apon  a  sloping  emi- 


'■H 

Hi 


v*''': 


1  ''v*;i 

w 


'I 


M 


42 


MOUNT    SC/A'S£T    HALJU 


li: 


nence,  whi<:h  the  villagers  dignified  with  the  title  of  hi.l, 
but  which  in  reality  was  no  such  thing.  The  hall  itself 
was  <*  large,  quaint,  old  mansion  of  gray  stone,  built  in 
the  Elizabethan  style,  with  high  turrets,  peaked  gables, 
and  lonjf,  high  windows.  It  was  finely  situated,  com- 
manding on  one  side  a  view  of  the  entire  village  and  the 
bay,  and  on  the  other  the  dark  pine  forest  and  far-spread 
ing  hills  beyond.  A  carriage-path  wound  up  toward 
the  front,  through  an  avenue  of  magnificent  horse  chest- 
nuts, now  bare  and  leafless.  A  wide  porch,  on  which 
the  sun  seemed  always  shining,  led  into  a  long,  high  hall, 
flankea  on  each  side  by  doors,  opening  into  the  separate 
apartments.  A  wide  staircase  of  dark  polished  oak  led 
to  the  upper  chambers  of  the  old  mansion. 

The  owner  of  Sunset  Hall  was  Squire  Erlistoa,  the 
one  great  man  of  the  village,  the  supreme  autocrat  of  St. 
Mark's.  The  squire  was  a  rough,  gruflf,  choleric  old 
bear,  before  whom  children  and  poultry  and  other  infe- 
rior animals  quaked  in  terror.  He  had  been  once  given 
to  high  living  and  riotous  excesses,  and  Sunset  Hall  had 
then  been  a  place  of  drunkenness  and  debauchery.  But 
these  excssses  at  last  brought  on  a  dangerous  disease, 
and  for  a  long  time  his  life  v,7as  despaired  of  ;  then  the 
squire  awoke  to  a  sense  of  his  situation,  took  a  "  pious 
g  '•eak  " — as  he  called  it  himself — and  registered  a  vow, 
that  if  it  pleased  Providence  not  to  deprive  the  world  in 
general,  and  St.  Marks  in  particular,  of  so  valuable  an 
ornament  as  himself,  he  would  eschew  all  his  evil  deeds 
£33 d  meditate  seriously  on  his  latter  end.  Whether  his 
prayer  Wcts  heard  or  not  I  cannot  undertake  to  say ;  but 
certain  it  is  the  squire  recovered  ;  and,  casting  over  in 
his  mind  the  ways  and  means  by  which  he  could  best  do 
penE'.nce  for  his  past  sins,  he  resolved  to  go  through  a 
course  of  Solomon's  Proverbs,  and — get  married.  Deem- 
ing it  best  to  make  the  greatest  sacrifice  first,  he  got 


tie  of  hi.  1, 
hall  itsell 
e,  built  in 
;d  gables, 
ted,  corn- 
ice and  the 
ar-spread 
p  toward 
rse  chest- 
on  which 
high  hall. 
!  separate 
i  oak  led 

iston,  the 
:rat  of  St. 
►leric  old 
>ther  infe- 
nee  given 

Hall  had 
ery.  But 
s  disease, 

then  the 
a  "pious 
ed  a  vow, 

world  in 
luable  an 
5vil  deeds 
ether  his 
say ;  but 
;  over  in 
1  best  do 
birough  a 
1.  Deem- 
t,  he  got 


MOV  NT    SUNSET    HALL, 


41 


mutied  ;  anJ,  after  the  honeymoon  was  past,  surer  iscd 
his  wife  one  day  by  taking  down  the  huge  family  Bible 
left  him  by  his  father,  and  reading  the  first  chapter. 
This  he  continued  for  a  week — yawning  fearfully  all  :he 
time;  but  after  tliat  he  resolved  to  make  his  wife  re'id 
rhem  aloud  to  him,  and  thereby  save  him  the  trouble. 

"  For,"  said  the  squire  sagely,  "  what's  the  use  of  hav- 
ing a  wife  il  she  can't  make  herself  useful.  '  A  goc  J 
wiie's  a  cr(jwn  to  her  husband,'  as  Solomon  says." 

So  Mrs.  Erliston  was  commanded  each  morning  to 
read  one  of  the  chapters  by  way  of  morning  prayers. 
The  squire  would  stretch  himself  on  a  lounge,  light  a 
...igar,  lay  his  head  on  her  lap,  and  prepare  to  listen.  But 
before  the  conclusion  of  the  third  verse  Squire  Erliston 
and  his  good  resolutions  would  be  as  sound  as  one  of  the 
Seven  Sleepers. 

When  his  meek  little  wife  would  hint  at  this,  her 
worthy  liege  lord  v.ould  tly  into  a  passion,  and  indig- 
nantly deny  the  assertion  He  asleep,  indeed  !  Prepos- 
terous ! — he  had  heard  every  word  !  And,  in  proof  of 
it,  he  vociferated  every  text  he  could  remember,  and  in- 
sisted upon  making  Solomon  the  author  of  them  all. 
This  habit  he  had  retained  through  life — often  to  the 
great  amusement  of  his  friends — setting  the  most  absurd 
phrases  down  to  the  charge  of  the  Wise  Monarch. 
His  wife  died,  leaving  him  with  two  daughters ;  the 
fate  of  the  eldest,  Esther,  is  already  known  to  the 
reader. 

Up  the  carriage  road,  in  front,  the  sleigh  containing 
our  travelers  drove.  Good  Mrs.  Gower — vho  for  many 
years  had  been  Squire  Erliston's  housekeeper — alighted, 
and,  passir  g  through  the  long  hall,  entered  a  cheerful- 
looking  apartment  known  as  the  "  housekeeper's  room. 

Seating  herself  in  an  elbow-chair  to  recover  her 
breath,  Mrs.  Gower  laid  the  baby  in  her  bed,  and  rang 


'  '1^'* 

\^'i 


m 

■  5  V 

|.,:'fi 


> '  -ft 

i  ,.rl 


fJ 


%im 


^1* 


\ 


'^M, 

m 


il 

iiij 

4 


t 


I: 


ir 


■  r 

11 


)!!>  1^ 


H  , 


'iH 


iri 


'III]  ■  ' 


'  ) 


44 


JiOCTJVT    SUNSET    HAUL 


the  belL  The  summons  was  answered  by  a  iidj  Httlt 
darkey,  who  rushed  in  all  of  a  flutter. 

"  Laws  !  Missus  Scour,  I's'  'stonished,  I  is !  Whar*f 
de  young  'un  !     Jupe  say  you  fotch  one  from  the  city.** 

"  So  I  did  ;  there  it  is  on  the  bed." 

"Sakes  alive,  ain't  it  a  mite  of  a  critter!  Gemini  i 
what'U  old  murse  say?  Can't  abide  babies  no  howl 
'spect  he  neber  was  a  baby  hisself  !" 

*' Totty,  you  mustn't  speak  that  way  of  your  master 
Remember,   it's   not  respectful,"  said   Mrs.  Gowcr,  re- 

bukingly. 

"Oh,  I'll  'member  of  it — 'specially  when  I's  near  him, 
and  he's  got  a  stick  in  his  hand,"  said  Totty,  turning 
again  to  the  baby,  and  eying  it  as  one  might  some  natu- 
ral curiosity.  *'  Good  Lor  !  ain't  it  a  funny  little  critter  ? 
What's  its  name.  Miss  Scour?" 

"I  intend  calling  it  Aurora,  after  my  poor  little 
daughter,"  replied  Mrs.  Gower,  tears  filling  her  eyes. 

'^Roarer!  Laws!  ain't  it  funny?  Heigh!  dar's  de 
bell.     'Spect  it's  for  me,"  said  Totty,  running  off. 

In  a  few  inomenis  she  reappeared  ;  and,  shoving   her 
curly  head  and  ebony  phiz  through  the  door,  announced 
in  pompous  tones,  "  dat  marse  wanted  de  honor   ob  a 
few  moments'  private  specification  wid  Missus  Scour  in 
de  parlor." 

"  Very  well,  Totty  ;  stay  in  here  and  *nind  the  baby 
w/atil  I  come  back,"  said  Mrs.  Gower,  :ismg  to  obey. 

Totty,  nothing  loth,  seated  herself  by  the  bed  and  re- 
sumed the  scrutiny  of  the  baby.  Whether  that  young 
lady  remarked  the  impertinen\  stare  of thedarkey  ornot, 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  ;  for,  hpving  bent  her  whole 
heart  and  soul  on  the  desperate  and  rather  cs  nnibal-like 
task  of  devouring  her  own  little  fists,  she  treated  Totty 
with  silent  contempt. 

Meantime^  Mrs.  Gower,  with  a  iook  of  ftrm  de(«r- 


,1 


MOUNT    SUNSET    HALL, 


Whar't 
e  city.** 

.Tcmini  < 
io   how ! 

'  master 
>wcr,  re- 

lear  him, 

turning 

me  natu- 

e  critter  ? 

or  little 
•  eyes, 
dar's  de 
1 

ring   her 
aounced 
or  ob  a 
Scour  in 

he  baby 
obey, 
i  and  re- 
t  young 
y  or  not, 
r  whole 
ibal-like 
;d  Totty 

D  de(tr- 


mination,  but  with  a  heart  which,  it  must  be  cwned, 
throbbed  fas':er  than  usual,  approached  the  room  wherein 
sat  the  lord  and  master  of  Sunset  Hall.  A  gruff  voice 
shouted  :  "  Come  in  !"  in  reply  to  her  "  tapping  at  the 
chamber-door ;"  and  good  Mrs.  Gower,  in  fear  and 
trembling,  entered  the  awful  presence. 

In  a  large  easy-chair  in  the  middle  of  the  floor — his 
feet  supported  by  a  high  ottoman — reclined  Squire 
Erliston.  He  was  evidently  about  fifty  years  of  age, 
below  the  middle  size,  stout  and  squarely  built,  and  of 
ponderous  proportions.  His  countenance  was  fat, 
purple,  and  bloated,  as  if  from  high  living  and  strong 
drink  ;  and  his  short,  thick,  bull-like  neck  could  not  fail 
to  bring  before  the  mind  of  the  beholder  most  unpleas- 
ant ideas  of  apoplexy.  His  little,  round,  popping  eyes 
seemed  in  danger  of  starting  from  their  sockets  ;  while 
the  firm  compression  of  his  square  mouth  betokened  an 
unusual  degree  of  obstinacy. 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Gower.  Fine  day,  this  !  Got 
home,  I  see.  Shut  the  door  ! — shut  the  door  ! — draughts 
always  bring  on  the  gout ;  so  beware  of  'em.  Don't  run 
into  danger,  or  you'll  perish  in  it,  as  Solomon  says. 
There  !  sit  down,  sit  down,  sit  down  !" 

Repeating  this  request  a  very  unnecessary  number  of 
times — for  worthy  Mrs.  Gower  had  immediately  taken  a 
seat  oc  entering — Squire  Erliston  adjusted  his  spectacles 
carefully  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  and  glanced  severely 
at  his  housekeeper  over  the  top  of  them.  That  good  lady 
sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  carpet — ^her  hands 
folded  demurely  in  her  lap— the  very  personificmtion  oK 
mingled  dignity  and  good-nature. 

**  Hem  !  madam,"  began  the  squire. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Gower,  meekly. 

^  Jupc  tells  me — that  is,  he  told  me — I  vean,  mm'i 


''I 


l-U 


«^n 


4 


46 


MOUNT    SUNS£T    HALJL 


I'lii 


^i',  'i 


I  I 


\^. 


the  short  and  long  of  it  is,  you've  brought  a  )aby  hemt 
with  you — eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  housekeeper. 

"And  how  dare  you,  ma'am — how  dare  you  bring 
such  a  thing  here  ?"  roared  the  squire,  in  a  rage.  ^  Don't 
you  know  I  detest  the  whole  persuasion  under  twelve 
years  of  age  ?  Yes,  ma'am  !  you  know  it  ;  and  yet  yoi 
went  and  brought  one  here.  *  The  way  of  the  trans- 
gressor is  hard,'  as  Solomon  says  ;  and  I'll  make  it  con 
fuundedly  hard  for  you  if  you  don't  pitch  the  squalling 
brat  this  minute  out  of  the  window  !     D'ye  hear  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Gower,  quietly. 
'  And  why  the  deuce  don't  you  go  and  do  it,  then— • 
eh?" 

"  Because,  Squire  Erliston,  I  am  resolved  to  keep  the 
child,"  said  Mrs.  Gower,  firmly. 

"  What !  what!  what  !"  exclaimed  the  squire,  speech- 
less with  mingled  rage  and  astonishment  at  the  auda- 
cious reply. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Gower,  resolutely.  "  I  con- 
sider that  child  sent  to  me  by  Heaven,  and  I  cannot  part 
with  it." 

"  Fudge  !  stuff !  fiddlesticks  !  Sent  to  you  by  heaven, 
indeed !  S'pose  heaven  ever  dropped  a  young  one  on 
the  beach  ?    Likely  story  I" 

"  Well,  I  consider  it  the  same  thing.  Some  one  left 
•t  on  the  beach,  and  heaven  destined  me  to  save  it." 

"Nonsense  !  no  such  thing  !  'twas  that  stupid  rascal 
jupe.  Making  you  get  out.  I'll  horsewhip  him  within  an 
inch  of  his  life  for  it !"  roared  th6  old  man,  in  a  pas- 
sion. 

"  I  beg  you  wiU  do  no  such  thing,  sir.  It  was  no 
fault  of  Jupite/d.  If  you  insist  on  its  quitting  the 
house,  there  remains  but  one  course  for  me." 

"Confound  it,  ma'am  !  you'd  make  a  saint  swear,  ik 


i 


■'"  ' 


MOUNT    SUNSET    HALL. 


47 


aby  heme 

ou  bring 

'*  Don't 
er  twelve 
d  yet  yoL! 
he  trans- 
ce  it  con 
squalling 
r  that  ?" 

it,  then- 
keep  the 

J,  speech- 
he  auda- 

.  "  I  con- 
anot  part 

J  heaven, 
:  one  on 

one  left 
it." 

d  rascal 
nthin  au 
\  a  pas- 

;  was  no 
ing   the 

i^tar,  %^ 


Solomon  says.     Pray  tell   me  what  is  that  course  you 
speak  of  ?" 

"I  must  leave  with  it." 

"  What  ?"  exclaimed  the  squire,  perfectly  aghast  with 
amazement. 

"  I  must  leave  with  it !"  repeated  Mrs.  Gower,  rising 
^rom  her  scat,  and  speaking  quietly,  but  firmly. 

"  Sit  down,  ma'am — sit  down,  sit  down  !  Oh,  Lord  I 
ict  me  catch  my  breatU  !  Leave  with  it !  Just  say  that 
over  again,  will  you  ?     I  don't  think  I  heard  right," 

"  Your  ears  have  not  deceived  you,  Squire  Erliston. 
I  repeat  it,  if  that  child  leaves,  I  leave,  too  !" 

You  should  have  seen  Squire  Erliston  then,  as  he  sat 
bolt  upright,  his  little  round  eyes  ready  to  pop  from 
their  sockets  with  consternation,  staring  at  good  Mrs. 
Gower  much  like  a  huge  turkey  gobbler.  That  good 
lady  stood  complacently  waiting,  with  her  hand  on  the 
handle  of  the  door,  for  what  was  to  come  next. 

She  had  not  long  wait ;  for  such  a  storm  of  rage 
burst  upon  her  devoted  head,  that  anybody  else  would 
have  fled  in  dismay.  But  she,  "good,  easy  soul,"  was 
quite  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  thing,  and  stood  gazing 
upon  him  as  serenely  as  a  well-fed  Biddy  might  on  an 
enraged  barn-yard  chanticleer.  And  still  the  storm  of 
abuse  raged,  interspersed  with  numerous  quotations  from 
Solomon — by  way,  doubtless,  of  impressing  her  that  his 
wrath  was  righteous.  And  still  Mrs.  Gower  stood  se- 
rene aad  unruflied  by  his  terrible  denunciations,  look 
ing  as  placid  as  a  mount lin  lake  slseping  in  the  sun 
light. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  well ;  what  do  you  think  of  your  con- 
duct nowt"  exclaimed  the  squire,  when  the  violence  of 
his  rage  was  somewhat  exhausted. 

"  Just  what  I  did  before,  sir. 
And  what  W2,3  that,  eh  ? — wnat  was  that  ?" 


■%  U 


i'lj 

'f'iil 

M 
f.j 


« 


h:"^ 


,ir 


;M;i  i 


;  S 


4i  MOUNT    SUNSET    HALL. 

"That  I  have  done  right,  sir ;  and  that  I  will  keep  tht 
child !" 

^^You  will?"  thundere*^  the  squire,  in  an  awful  voice. 

"Yes,  sir  !'*  replied  Mrs.  Gower,  slightly  appalled  b^ 
his  terrible  look,  but  never  flinching  in  her  determina- 
tion. 

"You — you — you — abominable — female,  you!"  stam 
inered  the  squire,  unable  to  speak  calmly,  from  rage 
Then  he  added  :  "  Well,  well  I  I  won't  get  excited — no, 
ma'am.  You  can  keep  the  brat,  ma'am  !  But  mind  you^ 
if  it  ever  comes  across  me,  I'll  wring  its  neck  for  it  as  I 
would  a  chicken's  !" 

"  Then  I  may  keep  the  little  darling  ?"  said  good  Mr*?. 
Gower,  gratefully.  "  I  am  sure  I  am  much  obliged, 
and " 

"There!  there  I  there!  Hold  your  tongue,  ma'am  1 
Don't  let  me  hear  another  word  about  it — the  pest  !  the 
plague  !  Be  off  with  you  now,  and  isend  up  dinner.  Let 
the  turkey  be  overdone,  or  the  pudding  burned,  at  your 
peril !  *  Better  a  stalled  ox  with  quietness,  than  a  dry 
morsel,*  as  Solomon  says.  Hurry  up  there,  and  ring  for 
Lizzie !" 

Mrs.  Gower  hastened  from  the  room,  chuckling  at 
having  got  over  the  difficulty  so  easily.  And  from  thai 
day  forth,  little  Aurora,  as  her  kind  benefactress  called 
her,  was  domesticated  at  Mount  Sunset  Hali. 


I1;i.' 


W 


1; 


!*'il 


.(».  S,r;j. 


f        !■' 


UZZIJfS    LOrMM. 


11  keep  th« 

ful  voice, 
jpalled  b)' 
letermina* 

>u !"  stam 
rom  rage 
cited — no, 
mind  you, 
for  it  as  I 

§;ood  Mr*!. 
1  obliged, 

5,  ma'am  \ 
pest  !  the 
iner.  Let 
d,  at  your 
tian  a  dry 
d  ring  for 

ickling  at 
from  that 
«88  called 


it 


■i 


CHAPTER  VL 
lizzie's  lover. 

••  Fond  jfirl!  no  saint  nor  angel  h« 
Who  TTooes  thy  young  simplicity  J 
But  one  of  earth's  impassioned  son*, 

As  warm  in  love,  as  fierce  in  ire, 

As  the  best  heart  whose  current  runt 

Full  of  the  day-god's  living  fire." 

FiKK  WoisHirau. 

HE  inn  of  St.  Mark's  was  an  old,  brown, 
wooden  house,  with  hui^c,  unpainted  shutters, 
and  great  oak  doors,  that  in  summer  lay  al- 
ways invitingly  open.  It  stood  in  the  center 
of  the  village,  with  the  forest  stretching  away 
behind,  and  the  beach  spreading  out  in  front.  Over  the 
door  swung  a  huge  signboard,  on  which  some  rustic 
artist  had  endeavored  to  paint  an  eagle,  but  which,  un- 
fortunately, more  closely  resembled  a  frightened  goose 

Within  the  "  Eagle,"  as  it  was  generally  called,  every- 
thing was  spotlessly  neat  and  clean  ;  for  the  landlord's 
pretty  daughter  was  the  tidiesi.  of  hoiAsewives.  The 
huge,  oaken  door  in  front,  directly  under  the  above» 
mentioned  sign-board  opened  into  the  bar-room,  behind 
ttje  counter  of  which  the  worthy  host  sat,  in  his  huge 
.'Cuthern  chair,  from  "early  morn  till  dewy  eve."  An- 
other door,  at  the  farther  end,  opened  into  the  '^  big  par- 
lor," the  pine  tloor  of  which  was  scrubbed  as  white  as 
tiuman  hands  could  make  it ;  and  the  two  high,  square 
windows  at  either  end  absolutely  glittered  with  cleanli- 
ness. The  wooden  chairs  were  polished  till  they  shone, 
and  ^ever  blazed  a  fire  on  a  cleaner  swept  hearth  thai^ 


4  f 


^ 


M 


1  -K 

11  ;''»i 

i   ■    v 

I  Ma 

i 


1 


i'i  I 


11' 


■•,  I 


i'i 


1.-'  S,       i. 


50 


LIZZIES    LOVER. 


that  which  now  roared  up  the  wide  fire-place  of  the 
"Eagle." 

It  was  a  gusty  January  night.  The  wind  came  raw 
and  cold  over  the  distant  hills,  now  rising  fierce  and 
high,  and  anon  dying  away  in  low,  moaning  sighs  among 
the  shivering;  trees.  On  the  beach  the  waves  came 
Jraifipinj^  inward,  their  dull,  hollow  voices  booming  like 
Jdir.tant  thunder  on  the  ear. 

But  witliin  the  parlor  of  the  "Eagle"  the  mirth  and 
laughter  were  loud  and  boisterous.  Gathered  around 
the  blazing  fire,  drinking,  smoking,  swearing,  arguing, 
were  fifteen  or  twenty  men — drovers,  farmers,  fishermen, 
and  loafers. 

'•  Ihis  yer's  what  /  calls  comfortable,"  said  a  lusty 
drover,  as  he  raised  a  foaming  mug  of  ale  to  his  lips  and 
drained  it  to  the  last  drop. 

•*  I  swan  to  man  if  it  ain't  a  rouser  of  a  night,"  said 
a  rather  good-looking  young  fellow,  dressed  in  the 
coarse  garb  of  a  fisherman,  as  a  sudden  gust  of  wind 
and  hail  came  drivin<x  a«;ainst  the  windows. 

"  Better  here  than  out  on  the  bay  to-night,  eh,  Jim  ?" 
said  the  drover,  turning  to  the  last  speaker. 

"  Them's  my  sentiments,"  was  the  reply,  as  Jim  filled 
his  pipe. 

"I  reckon  Jim  hain't  no  objection  to  stayin'  anywhere 
wbere  Cassie  is,"  remarked  another,  dryly, 

"  Who's  taking  my  name  in  vain  here?"  called  a  clear, 
ringing  voice,  as  a  young  girl,  of  some  eighteen  years  of 
»ge,  entered.  Below  the  middle  size,  plump  and  round, 
with  merry,  black  eyes,  a  complexion  decidedly  brown, 
full,  red  lips,  overflowing  with  fun  and  good-nature— 
such  was  Cassie  Fcx,  the  pretty  little  hostess  of  the 
"  Eagle." 

Before  any  one  could  reply,  a&  unusual  noise  in  the 
bar-rocm  fell  upon  th«ir  ears.    The  next  moment,  Sally, 


a 


m 


LIZZ'KS    LOVBR. 


V 


ace  of   the 

I  came  raw 
fierce  and 
ig!]s  among 
;aves  Ciinie 
(oming  like 

;  mirth  and 
red  around 
ig,  arguing, 
,  fishermen, 

aid  a  lusty 
his  lips  and 

night,"  said 
sed  in  the 
ist  of  wind 

;,  eh,  Jim  ?" 

s  Jim  filled 

I*  anywhere 

led  a  clear, 
len  years  of 
and  round, 
jdly  brown, 
)d-nature— 
tcss  of   the 

oise  in  the 
nent,  Sally, 


% 


the  black  maid-of-all-vfork,  came  into  the  "big  parlor,' 
with  mouth  and  eyes  agape. 

"  Laws,  misses,"  she  said,  addressing  Cassie,  **  dar's  a 
gemman — a  rale  big-bug — out'n  de  bar-room  ;  a  'spccta- 
ble,  'sponsible,  'greeable  gemman,  powerful  hansom,  wid 
brack  eyes  ati'  har,  an*  a  carpet-bag  !** 

"  Sakes  alive  !"  ejaculated  Cassie,  dropping  the  tray 
and  turning  to  the  looking-glass;  "he's  handsome,  and 
-•my  hairs  awfully  mussed!    Gracious  !  what  brings  him 
here,  Sally?" 

"  Got  cotch  in  de  storm  ;  'deed  he  did,  chile — heard 
him  tell  marse  so  my  own  blessed  self." 

"Goodness  !"  again  ejaculated  the  little  hostess.  "  I'm 
all  in  a  flusterfication.  Handsome  !  dear,  dear  ! — my 
hair's  all  out  of  curl  !  Black  eyes  ! — I  must  unpin  my 
dress  Nice  hair  !  Jim  Lokcr,  take  your  legs  out  of  the 
fire,  nobody  wants  you  to  make  andirons  of  'em." 

"  Cass !  Cass,  I  say !  Come  here,  you  Cas3  !" 
called  the  voice  of  mine  host  from  the  bar-room. 

Cassie  bustled  out  of  the  room  and  entered  the  bar. 
Old  Giles  Fox  stood  respectfully  before  the  stranger,  a 
young  man  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  tall  and  handsome,  with 
a  sort  of  dashing,  reckless  air,  that  weP.  became  him. 

"Here,  Cass,"  said  her  father,  "this  gentleman's  go- 
ing to  stay  all  night.  Show  him  into  the  best  room,  and 
get  supper  ready.     Be  spry,  now." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Cassie,  demurely,  courtesy:ng  before 
the  handsome  stranger  who  glanced  half  careless)  f 
half  admiringly,  at  her  pretty  face.  "This  way,  sir,  ii 
you  please." 

The  stranger  followed  her  into  the  parlor,  and  en- 
countered the  batrery  of  a  score  of  eyes  fixed  full  upoc 
He  paused  in  the  doorway  and  glanced   around. 


him. 


•'1 


'4\ 


"  Beg  pardon,"  he  said,  in  the  refined  tone  uf  a  gen- 
tleman, "  but  I  thought  this  room  was  unoccupied    C«»n 


^iili 


ii'  I 


if 


St  IIZZISS    LOP  EM, 

I  not  have  a  private  apartmeot  ?"  he  added,  turning  to 
Cassie. 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  replied  the  little  hostess  ;  "  step 
this  way,  sir,"  and  Cassie  ran  up-stairs,  followed  by  the 
new-comer,  whose  dark  eyes  had  already  made  a  deep 
impression  in  tlic  susceptible  heart  of  Cassie. 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  t)cfore  the  fire  aim 
6xsd  his  eyes  ilioughtfully  on  the  glowing  coals.  Cassie. 
havinp^  placed  his  dripping  cloak  before  the  fire  to  drv. 
ran  down  stairs,  where  he  could  distinctly  hear  he**  shrill 
voice  giving  hasty  f)rdors  to  the  servants. 

Supper  was  at  length  brought  in  by  Cassie,  and  the 
•tranger  fell  to  with  the  readiness  of  one  to  whom  a  long 
journey  has  given  an  appetite. 

"  There,"  he  said  at  last,  pushing  back  his  chair.  "  1 
think  I  have  dcjne  justice  to  your  cookery,  my  dear— 
Cassie — isn't  tliat  what  they  call  you  Y* 

*'  Yes,  sir  ;  after  Cassiopia,  who  was  queen  in  furria 
parts  long  ago.  Efiofla,  I  think,  was  the  name  of  the 
place,"  said  Cassie,  complacently. 

"What?"  said  the  stranger,  repressing  a  laugh 
**  What  do  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  place  ?" 

"  Efiofia  I"  repeated  Cassie,  with  emphasis. 

"  Ethiopia  !  Oh,  I  understand  !  And  who  named 
jrou  after  that  fair  queen,  who  now  resides  among  th« 
Btars?" 

**  Mother,  of  course,  before  she  died,"  replied  the 
namesake  of  that  Ethiopian  queen.  "She  read  about 
her  in  some  booK,  and  named  me  accordingly." 

The  stranger  smiled,  and  nxed  his  eyes  steadily  on 
the  complacent  face  of  Cassie,  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  amusement  and  curiosity.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  and  then  he  asked  : 

'•'  And  what  sort  of  place  is  St  Mark's — I  mean,  what 
sort  ot  people  are  there  in  it  ?" 


irnlng  to 

9S  ;  '•  step 

d  by  the 

ic  a  deep 

fire  ana 

s.  Cassie. 
c  to  dry. 
her  shrill 

5,  and  the 
om  a  long 

rhair.     "  I 
ny  dear— 

in  furrin 
ne  of  the 

a   laugh 


lo  named 
mong  th« 

plied  the 
ad  about 

eadilv  on 
cssion  of 
as  a  mo- 

»aii,  what 


LIZZIIi:S    LOV£A  %t 

**  Oh,  pretty  nice,"  replied  Cassie;  "  most  all  likcthoae 

you  saw  down  stairs  in  the  parior." 

"  But,  I  lucaii  the  gentry." 

•*Uh,  the  big-bugs.  Weil,  yes,  there  is  iomo  of  '«m 
here.     First,  lliere'sthe  squire " 

*' Squire  who  ?"  interrupted  the  stranger,  with  a  look 
of  interest. 

"Squire  Eriiston,  of  course  ;  he  lives  up  there  in  a 
place  called  M(»unt  Sunset." 

"  Yes  ?"  said  the  ycning  man,  'nquiringly. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Cassiopia,  '  with  his  daughter,  Miss 
Lizzie." 

"  Has  he  only  one  daughter  ?" 

"That's  all,  now.  He  had  two  ;  but  Miss  Esther  ran 
off  with  a  wild  young  fellow,  an'  I've  hearn  tell  as  how 
they  were  both  dead,  poor  things  !  So  powerful  hand- 
some  as  they  were  toci — 'specially  him." 

"  And  Miss  Lizzie?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Well,  you  sec  she  ain't  married — she's 
more  sense.  Siie's  awful  pretty,  too,  though  she  ain't  a 
mite  like  Miss  Esther  was.  Laws,  she  might  have  bin 
married  dozens  of  times,  I'm  sure,  if  she'd  have  all  tlie 
gents  who  want  her.  She's  only  been  home  for  two  or 
three  months  ;  she  was  off  somewhere  to  boardin'-school 
to  larn  to  play  the  planner  and  make  picters  and  sich." 

"  And  the  papa  of  these  interesting  damsels,  what  is 
he  like  ?"  inquired  the  young  man. 

"  He  ? — sakes  alive  !  Why,  he's  the  ugliest-tempered. 
Grossest,  hatefullest,  disagreeablest  old  snapping-tunlti 
ever  ycu  saw.  He's  as  cross  as  two  sticks,  and  as  savage 
as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head.  My  stars  and  garters  !  I'd 
sooner  run  a  mile  out  of  my  way  than  meet  him  in  the 
street." 

"  Whew  !  pleasant,  upon  my  word  !  Are  all  your 
oonntry  magnates  is  amiable  as  Squire  Eriiston  ?" 


V:. 


V'        '..■if 


Hi 


II 
, -If 

I 


If 


iii 


1  ■- 


P 

I: 

F 

11' 


n' 


?  H' 


,! 


f^ 

..     ■} 

t     ■ 

•    til, 
;!' 

ill 

1 
1 

1 

!  , 

54 


LIZZIE* S    LOVER. 


"  There  ain't  many  more,  'cepting  Doctor  Nick  Wis* 
man,  and  that  queer  old  witch,  Miss  Hagar." 

"  Has  he  any  grown-up  daugliters  ?"  inquired  the 
stranger,  carelessly. 

Cassie  paused,  and  regarded  him  with  a  peculiar  look 
for  an  instant. 

*'  Ahem  !"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "  No ;  he's  a 
'.vidderer  with  only  one  child,  a  daughter,  'bout  nine 
months  old,  and  a  nevvy  a  year  or  so  older.  No,  t'  ere 
ain't  no  yovvng  ladies — I  mean  real  ladies — in  the  village, 
'ceot  Miss  Lizzie  Erliston." 

He  paid  no  attention  to  the  meaning  tone  in  which 
this  was  spoken,  and  after  lingering  a  few  moments 
loni^^er,  Cassie  took  her  leave,  inwardly  wondering  who 
the  handsome  ana  inquisitive  stranger  could  be. 

"  Praps  thivS'U  tell,"  said  Cassie,  as  she  lifted  the 
stranger's  portmanteau,  and  examined  it  carefully  for 
name  and  initials.  ''Here  it  is,  I  declare!"  she  ex- 
claimeu,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  letters  "  B.  O.,"  inscribed 
on  the  steel  clasp.  "  B.  O.  I  wonder  what  them  stands 
for  !  'BO'  bo.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  a  beau. 
Sakes  alive  !  what  can  his  name  be  and  what  can  he 
want  ?  Well,  I  ain't  likely  to  tell  anybody,  *cause  I 
don  t  know  myself.  '  Has  he  got  any  grown-up  darters  ?' " 
she  muttered,  as  the  young  man's  question  came  again  to 
her  mind.  "  Maybe  he's  a  fortin'  hunter.  I've  hern  tel! 
o  sich.  Well,  I  hope  Miss  Lizzie  won't  have  anything 
o  do  with  him  if  he  is^  and  go  throw  herself  away  on  a 
4;'-aceless  scamp  like  Miss  Esther  did.  Weli,  I  guess,  if 
he  goes  courtin'  there,  old  Thunderclap  will  be  in  his 
wool,  and — O,  massy  en  us  ! — if  that  Sally  hain't  let  the 
fire  go  dead  out,  while  I  was  talkin'  upstairs  with  '  B.  O 
Little  black  imp  !  won't  I  give  it  to  her  ?" 

The  morning  after  the  storm  dawned  clear  and  cold 
h\\  traces  of  the  preceding  night's  tempest  had  pass6(^ 


:f 


LIZZIE'S    LOVER, 


55 


Nick  Wi8» 

inquired  the 

peculiar  look 

No;    he's  a 
'bout  nine 
No,  t'  «re 
n  the  village, 

ne  in  which 
ew  moments 
ndering  who 
ibe. 

he  lifted  the 
carefully  f&r 
e  !"  she  ex- 
[).,"  inscribed 
t  them  stands 
was  a  beau, 
what  can  he 
dy,  *cause  I 
up  darters  ?' " 
:ame  again  to 
I've  hern  fe!! 
ive  anything 
if  awav  on  a 
li,  I  guess,  if 
ill  be  in  liis 
hain't  let  the 
J  with  •  B.  O 

ear  and  cold 
had  passed 


away  and  the  sun  shone  forth  brightly  in  a  sky  ot  clear, 
cloudless  blue. 

The  handsome  young  sCranger  stood  in  the  bar-room 
Df  the 'Eagle,"  gazing  from  the  open  door  at  the  bay 
apirkling  and  ilaihing  in  the  sun's  light,  and  dotted  ali 
over  with  iishing-boats.  Behind  the  counter  sat  worthy 
Giles  Fox,  smoking  his  pipe  placidly.  From  the  in- 
teiior  of  the  building  came  at  intervals  the  voice  ol 
Cassie,  bcolding  right  and  left  at  "  You  Sally  "and  "  littie 
black  imp." 

Suddenly  \}^m  stranger  beheld,  emerging  from  a  forest 
path  on  ilie  right  of  the  inn,  a  gentleman  on  horseback. 
He  I  ode  slowly,  and  the  stranger  observed  that  all  the 
villagers  he  encountered  saluted  him  respectfully,  the 
men  pulling  off  their  hats,  the  women  dropping  profound 
courtesies,  and  the  children,  on  their  way  to  school,  by 
scampering  in  evident  alarm  across  meadows  and  helds. 

As  he  drew  rein  before  the  inn-door,  the  stranger 
drew  back.  The  old  gentleman  entered  and  approached 
the  bar. 

"  Good-morning,  Giles,"  he  said,  addressing  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  "  Eagle"  in  a  patronizing  tone. 

"Good-morning,  squire — good-morning,  sir.  Fine 
day  after  the  storm  last  night,  said  the  host,  rising. 

"  Great  deal  of  damage  done  last  night — great  deal," 
said  the  old  man,  speaking  rapidly,  as  was  his  custom  : 
"one  or  two  of  the  fishermen'^  huts  down  by  the  shore 
washed  completely  away.  Yes,  sir — f  !  Careless  fools  ! 
Served  'em  right.  Always  said  it  would  happen-—/ 
knew  it.  *  Coming  events  cast  their  shadows  afore,'  as 
Solomon  says." 

The  young  stranger  stepped  forward  and  stood  before 
him. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  bow  ;  "  have 
I  the  honor  of  addressing  Squire  ErUston  /" 


•  IN 


UZZIES    j.OV£M, 


t  .1 


1      !  i] 


"Yes,  yea-  to  be  sure  you  have  ;  that'f  mc.  STes,  sir 
V'^o  re  you,  eh  ?— who're  you  ?"  said  the  squire,  staring 
at  him  with  his  round,  bullet  eyes. 

"If  Squire  Eriistou  will  glance  over  this,  it  will  an* 
swer  his  question,"  said  the  young  man,  presenting  a 
letter. 

The  squire  held  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  stared  at 
him  a  moment  longer ;  then  wiped  his  spectacles  and 
adjusted  them  upon  his  nose,  opened  the  letter,  ani 
began  to  read. 

The  stranger  stood,  in  his  usual  careless  manner,  lean- 
ing against  the  counter,  and  watched  him  during  its 
perusal. 

"  Lord  bless  me  !"  exclaimed  the  squire,  as  he  finished 
the  letter.  "  So  you're  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Oran- 
more?  Who'd  think  it  ?  You  weren't  the  size  of  a  well- 
grown  pup  when  I  saw  you  last.  And  you're  his  son  ? 
Well,  well  !  Give  us  your  hand.  '  Who  knows  what  a 
day  may  bring  forth  ?'  as  Solomon  says.  I'd  as  soon 
have  thought  of  seeing  the  Khan  of  Tartary  here  as  you. 
Oranmore's  son  !  Well,  well,  well !  You'r«  his  very  image 
— ^a  tritie  better-looking.  And  you're  Barry  Oranmore? 
When  did  you  come,  eh  ? — when  did  you  come  ?" 

"  Last  night,  sir." 

"  Last  night,  in  all  the  storm  ?  Bless  my  soul !  Why 
didn't  you  come  up  to  Mount  Sunset?  £b,  sir?  Why 
didn't  you  come  ?" 

"  Really,  sir,  I  feared " 

"  Pooh  ! — pshaw  ! — nonsense  ! — no,  you  did  not.  'In- 
nocence is  bold  ;  but  the  guilty  flee-eth  when  no  one 
pursues,' as  Solomon  says.  What  were  you  afra'd  of? 
S'posc  cvcryhody  told  you  I  was  a  demon  incarnate — 
confound  their  impudence  !  But  I  ain't ;  no,  sir/  'The 
devil's  not  as  black  as  he's  painted,'  as  Solomon  says— 
or  if  he  didn't  say  it,  he  ought  to." 


■i; 


LIZZISS    LOVJUL 


17 


B.  ITes,  sir 
ire,  staring 

,  it  will  an* 
resenting  a 

id  stared  at 
tacles  and 
etter,    and 

inner,  lean- 
during  its 

he  finished 
end,  Oran- 
;e  of  a  well- 
■e  his  son? 
)ws  what  a 
'd  as  soon 
lere  as  you. 
very  image 
Dranmore  ? 

B?" 


oul! 
sir? 


Why 
Why 


d  not.  'In- 
en  no  one 

afra'd  of? 
acarnate— 
n>/  'The 
on  says— 


*  Indeed,  sir,  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  of  my  father's 
old  friend  in  any  such  way,  I  beg  to  assure  you." 

"No,  you  won't — haven't  time.  Come  up  to  Mount 
Sunset- -come,  right  off  !  Must,  sir — no  excuse;  Liz  '11 
be  delighted  to  see  yoa.     Come — come — come  along  !" 

"Since  you  insist  upon  it,  squire,  I  shall  do  myscK 
the  pleasure  of  accepting  your  invitation." 

"  Yes,  yes — to  besure  you  will  !"  again  interrupted  the 
impatient  squire.  *'  Bless  my  heart ! — and  you're  little 
Barry.     Well,  well !" 

"  I  am  Barry,  certainly,"  said  the  young  man,  smiling  ; 
"but  whithsr  the  adjective  'little'  is  well  applied  or 
not,  I  feel  scr^iewhat  dcabtful.  1  have  a  dim  recollec« 
tion  of  measuring  some  six  feet  odd  inches  when  I  left 
home." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! — to  be  sure  !  to  be  sure  !"  laughed  the 
lusty  old  squire.  "  Little ! — by  Jove  !  you're  a  head  and 
shoulders  taller  than  I  am  myself.  Yes,  sir — true  as 
gospel.  '  Bad  weeds  grow  fast,'  as  Solomon  says.  Lord  ! 
W0n't  my  Liz  be  astonished,  though  ?" 

"  I  hope  your  daughter  is  quite  well,  squire." 

"  Well ! — you'd  better  believe  it.  My  daughter  is 
never  sick.  No,  sir  ;  got  too  much  sense — specially  Liz. 
Esther  always  was  a  simpleton — ran  away,  and  all  that, 
before  she  was  out  of  her  bibs  and  tuckers.  Both  died — 
knew  they  would.  'The  days  of  the  transgressors  shall 
be  short  on  the  earth,'  as  Solomon  says.  But  Liz  has  got 
her  eye-teeth  cut.     Smart  girl,  my  Liz." 

"I  anticipate  great  pleasure  in  making  the  acquaint- 
ince  of  Miss  Erliston,"  said  (Jranmore,  carelessly  ;  "her 
beauty  and  accomplishments  have  made  her  name  famil- 
ial to  me  long  ago." 

"Yes,  yes,  Liz  is  good-looking— deucedly  good-look- 
Ing ;  very  like  what  I  was  at  her  age.  Ah,  you're  laugh- 
iug,  you  -ascal  I    Well,  I  dare  viy  I'm  no  boauty  now  ^ 


^'t«:* 


'    ii 


Hi 


in 

if 


r 


jii 


•         I 


4  m 


1   ,■ 


1  li 


I  : 


$8 


LIZZIE'S    LOVER. 


but  never  mini  that  at  present.  'Handsome  is  as  hand 
some  does,'  as  Solomon  says.  Come,  get  your  traps  and 
come  along.     Giles,  lly  round — we're  in  a  hurry." 

Thus  adjured,  Giles  kindly  consented  to  "fly  round.' 
All  was  soon  ready  ;  and,  after  giving  orders  to  hiiveliis 
portmanteau  sent  after  him,  young  Oranmore  mounted 
nis  horse,  and,  accompanied  by  the  squire,  rode  ofl 
toward  Mount  Sunset  Hail,  the  squire  enlivening  ths 
way  by  numerous  quotations  from  Solorcon. 

On  reaching  ihc  Hall,  his  host  ushered  him  into  tte 
parlor,  where,  seated  ut  the  piano,  was  the  squire's 
daughter,  Lizzie,  singing,  by  some  singular  coinci- 
dence : 

"There's  somebody  coming  to  marry  in»— 
There's  somebody  coming  to  woo.** 

Whether  Miss  Lizzie  had  seen  that  someh^tfy  coming 
Ehrougli  the  wiiuiow,  I  cannot  say. 

She  rt>se  abruptly  from    her   seat   as   they   entered, 

exciciirning  : 


*» 


"  Oil,  papa  !  I'm  so  glad  you  have  come.* 

Then,  seeing  the  stranger,  she  drew  back  with  ths 
prettiest  affectation  of  embarrassment  in  the  world. 

Lizzie  Erliston  was  pretty — decidedly  pretty — with  a 

little  ^ound,  graceful  figure,  snowy  complexion,  rosebud 

lips,   and   sparkling,    vivacious  blue    eyes.       Graceful, 

thoughtless,  airy,  dressy,  and  a  most  finished  flirt  was 

ir.le  Lizzie. 

"  Mr.  Oranmore,  my  daughter  Liz ;  Liz,  Mr.  Oran- 
more, son  of  my  old  friend.  Fact  lur?/  ip  trfaic- 
fast  now — I'm  starvintr.'' 

"  I  am  delighted  to  welcome  the  soia  of  papa'b  iriend  " 
said  L!z2ie,  courtesy iiig  to  the  handsome  stranger,  who 
returned  the  salutation  v/itli  easy  gallantry. 

Brnikfftt  was  brought  in.  and  the  trio,  together  with 


LIZZIES    LOVER, 


s  as  hand 
traps  and 
ry." 
ly  round.' 
to  hiive  liia 
J  mounted 
rode  ofl 
rening  ths 

n  into  tiiC 
le  squire's 
ar    coinci* 


(fy  coming 
y   entered, 


t  with  the 
world, 
ty — with  a 
n,  rosebud 
Graceful, 
i  flirt  was 

Mr.  Oran- 

I'b  iriend  " 
nger,  who 

ether  with 


worthy    Mrs.   Gower,    were    soon    sea.ed  around    the 

table. 

"I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Oranmore,  you  will  find  it  very 
i5ull  here,  after  being  accustomed  to  the  gayetj  of 
:ity  life.  Our  village  is  the  quietest  place  in  ihe 
world." 

"  Dull  !"  repeated  Oranmore.  "  Did  angels  ever 
condescend  to  dwell  on  this  earth.  I  should  say  they 
had  taken  up  their  abode  in  St.  Mark's." 

He  fixed  his  large  dark  eyes  on  her  face,  and  bowed 
with  a  look  of  such  ardent  yet  respectful  admiration 
as  he  spoke,  that  Lizzie  blushed  "celestial,  rosy  red,' 
and  thought  it  the  prettiest  speech  she  had  ever  heard. 

"  Fudge  !"  grunted  the  squire. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Oranmore,  I  see  you  are  a  sad  flatterer,' 
said  the  little  lady,  smilingly,  buttering  another  roll. 

"Not  so.  Miss  Erliston.  Dare  I  speak  what  I  think, 
I  should  indeed  be  deemed  a  flatterer,"  replied  Oran- 
more, gallantly. 

"  Bah  !"  muttered  the  squire,  with  a  look  of  intense 
disgust. 

At  this  moment  a  child's  shrill  screams  resounded  in 
one  of  the  rooms  above,  growing  louder  and  louder  each 
moment. 

"  There — that's  Aurora !  Just  listen  to  the  little 
ivretch  !"  exclaimed  Lizzie.  "  That  child  will  be  the 
sloaLh  of  us  yet,  with  her  horrid  yells.  Her  lungs  must 
be  made  of  cast-iron,  or  something  harder,  for  she  is  in- 
cessantly screaming," 

The  Squire  darted  an  angry  look  at  Mis.  Gower,  who 
faltered  out :  She  was  very  sorr)- — that  she  had  told 
Totty  to  be  sure  and  keep  her  quiet — that  she  didn't 
«20w  what  was  the  matter,  she  was  sure 

"  Ring  the  bell  \"  said  the  squire,  savagely  cutting  hc» 


U^ 


^■1 


tk-^ 


h.i 


I  fj 


-1 


)  I  i 

I  if 


I  i  I 


l:'i 


if.!!' 


F 


1 1  ii 

Hi 


1. 


I 


i   I  ! 


to  LIZZIES    LOVER. 

f^<ii.i     The  summons  was  answered  by  the Lttle darkey, 
Totty. 

"  Well,  Totty,  what's  the  natter  ?"  said  Lizzie., 
**  Don't  you  hear  the  baby  squalling  there  like  a  little 
tempest  ?     Why  don't  you  attend  to  her  ?" 

"  Lor  !  Miss  Lizzie,  'twan't  none  o'  my  fault — 'deed 
'twan't,"  said  the  little  darkey.  "  Miss  Roarer's  a-roariu 
'cause  she  can't  put  her  feet  in  de  sugar-bowl.  'Deed  I 
can't  'vent  her,  to  save  my  precious  life.  Nobody  can't 
do  nothing  vvid  dat  'ar  little  limb." 

"  I'll  do  something  lo  you  you  won't  like  if  you  don't 
make  her  stop  !"  said  the  angry  squire.  "Be  off  with 
you  now  ;  and,  if  I  hear  another  word,  Til — I'll  twist 
your  neck  for  you  !" 

"  Marse,  I  declare  I  can't  stop  her,"  said  Totty,  dodg- 
ing in  alarm  toward  the  door. 

"  Be  off  !"  thundered  the  squire,  in  a  rage,  hurling  a 
hot  roll  at  the  black  head  of  Totty,  who  adroitly  dodged 
and  vanished  instanter. 

"  Of  all  diabolical  inventions,  young  ones  arc  the 
worst  !"  snappishly  exclaimed  Squire  Erliston,  bringing 
down  his  fist  on  the  table.  "  Pests  !  plagues  !  abomina- 
tions !  Mrs.  Gower,  ma'am,  if  you  don't  give  it  a  sleep- 
ing draught  when  it  takes  to  yelling,  I'll — I'll — I'll ' 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  O  ran  more,  as  you  are  from  the 
city, '  broke  in  Lizzie,  "  perhaps  you  may  have  heard  of 
some  one  there  who  has  lost  a  child  ?" 

*'What — what  did  you  say? — a  child?"  exclaimed 
Oranmore,  starting  so  suddenly  and  looking  so  wild,  thai 
all  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

**  Yes.  But,  dear  me,  how  pale  you  look  !  Are  you 
ill  ?" 

"  111 !  Oh,  no  ;  pray  go  on,"  said  OraDmore,  recov 
enng  himself  by  an  effort. 

"  Well  ;  last  Christmas  eve,  Mra.  Gower  waa  retun^ 


'H 


LIZZIES    LOVER, 


it 


tie  darkey, 

^e  a  litdo 

ult— -'deed 
sa-roariu 
'Deed  I 
body  can't 

you  don't 
5  oflf  with 
-I'll  twist 

)tty,  dodg- 

hurling  a 
.ly  dodged 

as  are  the 

t,  bringing 

abomina- 

it  a  sleep- 
-I'll ' 

\  from  the 
e  heard  of 

exclaimed 
>  wild,  that 


ing  from  the  city,  where  she  had  been  to  make  purchases, 
and  taking  the  shore  roaci,  picked  up  an  infant  on  ihc 
beach,  ar  d  brought  it  home.  It  is  a  wonder  no  inquiries 
were  made  about  it." 

Barry  Oran more  breathed  freely  ag^in.  It  could  not 
be  his  child,  for  he  had  seen  the  nurse  before  le.iving  the 
city;  and  slic,  fearing  to  lose  her  annuity,  had  told  him 
tJe  child  was  alive  and  well  :  therefore  it  must  be  an- 
other. 

A  week  passed  rapidlv  away  at  Sunset  Hall.  There 
were  sails  on  the  bay,  and  rides  over  the  hills,  and  shady 
forest  walks,  and  drives  through  the  village,  and  long 
romantic  rambles  in  the  moonlight.  And  Lizzie  Erlis- 
ton  was  in  love.  Was  hel  She  thought  so  sometimes 
when  his  deep,  dark  eves  would  rest  on  her,  and  fill  with 
softest  languor  as  they  wandered  side  by  side.  But, 
then,  had  she  not  discovered  his  restlessness,  his  evident 
longing  to  be  away,  though  he  still  remained?  Some* 
thing  in  his  conduct  saddened  and  troubled  her  ;  for  she 
loved  him  as  devotedly  as  it  was  in  the  power  of  a  nature 
essentially  shallow  and  selfish  to  love.  But  the  danger- 
ous spell  of  his  voice  and  smile  threw  a  glamour  over 
her  senses.  She  could  almost  have  loved  his  ver)*  faults, 
had  she  known  them.  And,  yielding  herself  to  that 
witching  spell,  Lizzie  Erliston,  who  had  often  cai  glu 
others,  at  last  found  herself  caught. 


■I 


Are  you 
>re,  recov 
it  retun^ 


'  "^^i 


Lt  .M 


I 


,': 


THE    CYPRESS     WRBATB. 


m 


CHAPTER   VII. 


THE    CYPRESS   WREATH, 


% 


i    -Hit: 


'V 

1%! 


•  i:  '  i  i^« 


*    I 


:ii 


**  Brido,  upon  thy  marriage-day. 
Did  the  tluttcring  of  thy  breath 
Speak  of  joy  or  woe  beneath  ? 
And  the  h'le  that,  went  and  tame 
On  thy  cheek  like  waving  fiamc, 
Flowed  that  crimson  from  the  jnrest, 
Or  the  gladncs*  of  thy  breast?" — Hkmans 


QUIRE  ERLISTON,  can  I  have  a  few  mtv 

tnents'  private  conversation  with  you  this 

morain^'Tf?"  said   Oranmore,  as  he  sought 

J     the    squire,    whom   Mrs.    Gower   was  just 

helping  to  ensconce  in  his  easy-chair. 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  my  boy.     Mrs.   Gower,   bring 

the  rest  of  the  pillows  by  and  by.  *  Time  for  everything, 

as  Solomon  says.     Clear  out  now,  ma'am,  while  I  attenc 

to  this  young  man's  case."* 

Barry  Oranmore  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  fioor 
resting  one  hand  lightly  on  tlio  back  of  a  chair.  Squire 
Erliston,  propped  up  in  an  easy-chair  with  pillows  and 
cushions,  and  wearing  an  unusually  benign  expression 
of  countenance — caused,  probably,  by  Miss  Aurora's 
fsxtraordinary  quiemess  on  that  morni  ly. 

"  You  have  doubtless  perceived,  sir,  my  attentions  to 
four  daughter,"  v/ent  on  the  young  man,  in  a  tone  that 
ras  almost  careless.  "  Miss  Lizzie,  I  am  happy  to  say, 
returns  my  affection  ;  and,  in  short,  sir,  I  havs  as^edthis 
Interview  to  solicit  your  daughter's  hand  " 

He  bowed  slightly,  and  stood  awaiting  a  reply  Thf 
aquire  jumprd  frcm  his  seat,  kicked  one  pillow  to  the 


4 


>>1 


THE    CYPRESS     WRBATB, 


a  few  mo» 

h  you  this 
he  sought 
r   was  just 
;hair. 

wer,  bring 
very  thing, 
ilc  I  attenc 

the  floor 
ir.  Squire 
ullows  and 
expression 
s  Aurora's 

tentions  to 
1  tone  thai 
ppy  to  say, 
\  asKedthis 

epiy  Thf! 
low  to  ihe 


other  end  of  the  room,  waved  another  above  his  head, 
and  shouted  : 

"  Bless  my  soul  !  it's  just  what  I  wanted  !  Give  us 
your  hand,  my  dear  boy.  Solicit  her  hand  !  Take  it, 
take  it,  with  all  my  heart.  If  ahc  had  a  dozen  of  hanri*. 
you  should  have  then;  all.' 

"  I  thank  you  sincerely,  Squire  Erliston.  Believe  a  c 
it  fjnly  needed  your  consent  to  our  union  ri  fill  my  cuj: 
of  happiness  to  the  brim." 

His  voice  was  low — almost  scornful  ;  and  the  era 
phasis  upon  "happiness"  was  bitter,  indeed.     But  the 
squire,  in  his  delight,  neither  heeded  nor  noticed. 

"The  wedding  must  come  off  immediately,  my  dear 
fellow.  We'll  have  a  rousing  one,  and  no  mistake.  I 
was  afraid  Liz  might  run  off  with  some  penniless  scamp 
as  Esther  did  ;  but  nov/  it's  all  right.  Yes,  the  sooner 
the  wedding  comes  off  the  better.  *  He  who  giveth  not 
his  daughter  in  marriage,  doeth  well  ;  but  he  who 
giveth  her  doeth  better,'  as  Solomoi.  ought  to  know, 
seeing  he  had  some  thousands  of  'em.  Be  off  now,  and 
arrange  with  Lizzie  the  day  for  the  wedding,  while  I 
*:ake  a  sleep.  When  it's  all  over,  wake  me  up.  There, 
go  !  Mrs.  Gower  !  hallo  !  Mrs.  Go  wer,  I  say  !  coroe 
here  with  the  pillows." 

Oranmore  hurried  out,  while  Mrs.  Gower  hurried  in 
— he  to  tell  Lizzie  of  the  success  of  his  mission,  and  she 
CO  prepare  her  master  for  the  irms  of  Morpheus. 

That  Jay  fortnight  was  fixed  upon  as  their  marriage 

day.     The  Bishop  of  P was  to  visit  St.  Mark's,  aiid 

during  his  advent  in  the  village  the  nuptials  were  to  bf 
celebrated. 

An'i  such  a  busy  place  as  Sunset  Ha,ll  bee.  me  aftej 
the  important  fact  was  announced  !  Poor  Mrs.  Gowei 
lost,  perceptibly,  fifty  pounds  of  flesh,  with  running  in 
and  out,  anu  up  and  down  stair*^    Old  carpets  and  old 


'% 


vu 


\:A 


••■  ■;.ts 


^i', 
t>^ 


!■     f 


THE    CYPRESS     WREATH. 


11-  I 


I 


uervants  were  tuned  out,  and  new  curtains  and  French 
cooks  turned  in.  Carpets  and  custards,  and  .'cc-creami 
and  Aurora's  screair.s,  and  milliners  and  feathers,  and 
fiowcrs  a;id  flounces,  and  jellies  and  jams,  and  upholstery 
nM^Tjnnd  supreme,  until  the  squire  swore  by  all  the  "  fiends 
:n  flames"  that  it  was  worse  than  pandemonium,  and 
!u:>hed  fnnn  the  place  in  despair  to  seek  refuge  with 
Giles  Fox,  aiul  smoke  his  pipe  in  peace  at  the  "  Eagle." 

Barry  Orainnore,  finding  !iis  bride  so  busily  engaged 
superintending  jewels,  and  satins,  and  laces,  as  to  be  able 
to  dispense  with  his  serviees,  mounted  his  horse  each 
daj,  nnd  seldom  returned  before  night.  And,  amid  all 
the  bustle  and  confusion,  no  one  noticed  that  he  grew 
thinner  and  pa'"^  Jay  after  day  ;  nor  the  deep  melan- 
choly filling  his  dark  eyes;  nor  the  bitter,  self-scorning 
look  his  proud,  liandsome  face  ever  wore.  They  knew 
not  how  he  paced  up  and  down  his  room,  night  after 
niglif,  trying  to  still  the  sound  of  one  voice  that  was  ever 
mournfully  calling  his  name.  They  knew  not  that  when 
be  quilted  the  brilliantly-lighted  rooms,  and  plunged 
into  the  deep,  dark  forest,  it  was  to  shut  out  the  sight  of 
a  sad,  n^proachful  face,  that  ever  haunted  him,  day  and 
night. 

Lizzie  was  in  her  glory,  flitting  about  like  a  bird  from 
morning  till  night.  Such  wonderful  things  as  she  had 
rnrjir.ifactured  out  of  white  satin  and  Mechlin  lace,  and 
such  confusion  as  she  caused — flying  through  the  house, 
bMr.ing  the  servants'  ears,  and  lecturing  Mrs.  Gowerand 
shaking  Aurora — who  had  leave  now  to  yell  to  her 
heart's  content— and  turning  everything  topsy-turvy, 
until  the  squire  broug'it  down  his  fist  with  a  thump,  and 
declared  that  though  Solomon  had  said  there  was  a  time 
for  everything,  neither  Solomon,  nor  any  other  man, 
could  ever  convince  him  that  there  waa  a  time  all«U9<l 
for  luch  a  racket  and  rumpus  as  th^^ 


THR    CYPRESS     WREATH. 


But  out  of  chaos,  lonj^-  ago,  was  brought  forth  order ; 

and  the  "eve  befijre  the  bridal  "  evcr>'ihing  a  Sunset 
Hall  was  restored  to  peace  and  quietness  onrc  more. 
The  rooms  were  pcrfccily  dazzling  with  the  glitter  of  new 
furniture  and  the  blaze  of  myriads  of  lusters.  And  such 
a  crowd  as  on  the  wedding  night  filled  those  splendid 
ro(jms  !  There  was  Mrs.  Gower,  maguificcnt  in  bruwn 
velvet,  preserved  for  state  occasions  like  the  present, 
with  such  a  miraculous  combination  of  white  ribb>n? 
and  lace  on  her  head.  There  was  the  squire,  edifying 
the  public  generally  with  copious  extracts  from  Solomon 
and  seme  that  were  nut  from  Solomon.  There  was  Mrs 
Oranmore,  grim  and  gray  as  ever,  moving  like  the  guilty 
shadow  of  a  lost  soul,  through  thnsc  gorgeous  rooias 
and  that  glittering  crowd,  with  the  miserable  feeling  at 
her  heart,  that  her  only  son  was  tw  be  offered  that  night  a 
sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  her  pride  and  ambition.  There  was 
Doctor  Wiseman,  all  legs  and  arms,  as  usual,  slinking 
among  the  guests.  There  was  the  bishop,  a  fat,  pompous, 
oily-looking  gentleman,  in  full  canonicals,  waiting  to 
tie  the  Gordian  knot. 

There  was  a  bustle  near  the  dooi  a  twaying  to  and 
fro  of  the  crowd,  and  the  bridal  party  entered.  Every 
voice  was  instantaneously  hushed,  every  eye  was  fixed 
upon  tliem.  How  beautiful  th«  bride  looked,  with  her 
elegant  robes  and  gleaming  jewels,  her  downcast  eyes, 
and  rose-tlushed  cheeks,  and  half-smiling  lips.  The  eyes 
of  all  the  gentlemen  present  were  fixed  wistfully  upon 
her.  And  the  eyes  of  the  ladies  wandered  to  the  bride- 
groom, with  something  very  like  a  feeling  of  awe,  as 
they  saw  how  pale  and  cold  he  was  looking — how  dif- 
ferent from  any  bridegroom  they  had  ever  seen  before. 
Were  his  thoughts  wandering  to  ar.i/iher  bridal,  in  a  land 
beyond  the  sea,  with  one  for  whose  blue  eyes  and  golden 
hair  he  would  then  willingly  have  surrendered  f aroe.  and 


■'11 


Vk^^ 


1;;^ 


111 


THE    CYPRESS     WREATH. 


wealth,  and  ambition  ?  And  now,  the  who  aai  left 
friends,  and  hqme,  and  country  for  his  sake,  wasdetert^ 
for  another.  Yet  still  that  unknown,  penniless  jjirl  ^vas 
dearer  than  all  the  world  beside.  Well  might  he  look 
and  feel  unlike  a  bridegroom,  with  but  one  image  filling 
his  heart,  but  one  name  on  his  lips — **  Eveleen  I  EveleenT 
But  no  one  there  could  read  the  heart,  throbbing  so 
tumultuously  beneath  that  cold,  proud  exterior.  They 
passed  through  the  long  rooms — the  bishop  stood  before 
them — the  service  began.  To  him  it  seemed  like  the 
service  for  the  dead — to  her  it  was  the  most  delightful 
thing  in  the  world.  There  was  fluttering  of  fans,  flirting 
of  perfumed  handkerchiefs,  smiling  lips  and  eyes,  and 


.:il!  : 


n 


**  With  decorum  all  things  carried  ; 
Miss  smiled,  and  blushed,  and  theo 


rTi«d.' 


fhe  ceremony  was  over,  and  Li2zie  Erliston  was 
Liazie  Erliston  no  longer. 

But  just  at  that  moment,  when  the  crowd  around  were 
about  to  press  forward  to  offer  their  congratulations,  a 
loud,  ringing  footstep,  that  sounded  as  though  shod  with 
steel,  was  heard  approaching.  A  moment  more,  and  an 
uninvited  guest  stood  among  them.  The  tall,  thin,  sharp, 
angular  figure  of  a  woman  past  middle  age,  with  a  grim, 
weird,  old-maidenish  face  ;  a  stiff,  rustling  dress  of  iron- 
gray  ;  a  black  net  cap  over  her  grizzled  locks,  and  a 
tramp  like  that  of  a  dragoon,  completed  the  external  of 
this  rather  unprepossessing  figure. 

All  fell  back  and  made  way  for  her,  while  a  murmur : 
"  Miss  Hagar !  What  brings  Miss  Hagar  here  ?"  passed 
through  the  room. 

She  advanced  jtraight  to  where  Lizzie  stood,  leaning 
proudly  and  fondly  on  the  arm  of  Oranmore,  and  draw 
lag  forth  a  wreath  of  mingled  cypresi  and  dismal  yew. 


TSTB    CYPRESS     WRBA 


«7 


laid  it  amid  the  orange  blussoms  on  the  head  of  ihe 

Dride. 
With  a  siiriek  of  superstitious  terror,  Lizzie  tcre  the 

jn.inous  wreath  from  her  iiead,  and  tlung  it  on  the  floor. 

Heeding  not  the  action,  the  woman  raised  her  long, 
aunt,  lleshless  arm  liive  an  inspired  sibyl,  and  chanted 
a  a   voice  so  wild  and  dreary,  that  every  heart  stood 

.:il!  : 


"  Oh,  bride  !  woe  to  thee  ! 
Ere  the  spring  leaves  deck  the  tree, 
Those  locks  you  now  with  jewels  twine 
Shall  wear  this  cypress  wreath  of  mloe.'* 


'I 
% 


■A' 


Then  striding  through  the  awe-struck  crowd,  she 
passed  out  and  disappeared. 

Faint  and  siclc  with  terror,  Lizzie  hid  her  face  in  the 
arm  that  supported  her.  A  moment's  silence  ensued, 
broken  by  the  squire,  who  came  stamping  along,  ex- 
claiming : 

"  Hallo  I  what's  the  matter  here  !  Have  cither  of 
these  good  people  repented  of  their  bargain,  already. 
'Better  late  than  never,'  as  Solomon  says." 

"  It  was  only  my  sister  II agar,  who  came  here  to  pre- 
dict fortunes,  as  usual,"  said  Doctor  Wiseman,  with  an 
uneasy  attempt  at  a  laugh,  "  and  succeeded  in  scaring 
Miss  Lizzie — Mrs.  Oranmore,  I  mean — half  out  of  her 
yrits." 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  !  13  that  all.  Liz,  don't  be  such  a  little 
fool  !  There  goes  the  music.  Let  every  youngster  be 
off,  on  penalty  of  death  to  the  dancing-room.  *  Time  to 
darce,'  as  Solomon  says,  and  if  it's  not  at  weddings,  I'd 
like  to  know  when  it  is.     Clear  !" 

Thus  adjured,  with  a  great  deal  of  laughing  and 
chatting,  the  company  dispersed.  The  folding-doors 
flew  open,  and  merry  feet  were  toon  tripping  gayly  to 


»*1 

t,'H;| 


•15.: 


V-J* 


■  f  ■ 
l1»'.  til 


I, 


r 


Ml 


'.;:    .ji 


■-il!.i! 


i 

1^^ 

!  ^' ', 

i 

'i.  ' 

'it 

* 

It 

i 

1 

68 


TJIF    CYPRESS     WREATH. 


the  music,  and  flirtinir,  and  laut»hin{r,  and  love-mr.k\ng. 
and  ice-creams  were  soon  at  their  height,  and  Lizzie,  as 
the  Iloated  airily  around  the  room  in  the  waltz,  soon  f«>t- 
got  all  about  Miss  Hagar's  prcdiciiou.  Barry  Orannu  itt 
by  an  citort,  shook  off  his  gloom,  and  laughed  with  t[  f 
merriest,  and  waltzed  with  his  bride,  and  the  pretty  bride 
maids  ;  and  all  the  ume  his  heart  was  faraway  withtha 
haunting  shape  that  had  stood  by  his  side  all  the  night. 
,c  *  *  *  ♦  * 

A  monai  had  passed  away.  Their  bridal  toui  had 
been  a  short  one,  and  the  newly  wedded  pair  had  »-e- 
turned  to  Sunset  Hall.  And  Lizzie  was  at  la^t  begin- 
ning to  open  her  eyes,  and  wonder  what  ailed  her  husband 
So  silent,  so  absent,  so  restless,  growing  more  and  more 
so  day  after  day.  His  long  rides  over  the  hills  were  now 
taken  alone ;  and  he  would  only  return  to  lie  on  a 
lounge  ill  some  darkened  room,  with  his  face  hidden 
from  view  by  his  long,  neglected  locks.  At  first  she 
pouted  a  little  at  this  ;  but  seeing  it  produced  no  etiect, 
she  at  last  concluded  to  let  him  have  his  own  v.ay,  and 
she  would  take  !iers.  So  evening  after  evenin?:,  while 
he  lay  i  lone,  so  still  and  motionless,  in  his  darkened 
chamber,  Lizzie  frequented  parties  and  soirees,  giving 
Implausible  excuses  for  her  husband's  absence,  and  was  the 
gayest  of  the  gay. 

One  morning,  returning  with  the  gray  dawn,  from  an 
unusually  brilliant  soiree^  she  inquired  for  her  husband, 
and  learned  that,  naif  an  hour  before,  he  had  called  for 
his  horse  and  ridden  off.  This  did  not  surprise  her,  foi 
it  had  often  happened  so  before  ;  so,  without  giving  the 
matter  a  second  thought,  she  flung  herself  on  her  bed, 
and  fell  fast  asleep. 

Half  an  hour  after  the  sound  of  many  feet,  and  a 
confused  murmur  of  many  voices  below,  fell  on  her  ear. 

Wondering  what  it  could  mean,  she  raieed  herself  on 


you 


THE    CYPRESS     WREATH. 


69 


her  elbow  to  listen,  when  the  door  was  burst  open  ;  and 
Totty,  gray,  gasping,  horror-stricken,  stood  before  her. 

"Totty,  what  in  the  name  of  heaven  is  the  matter  !** 
exclaimed  Lizzie,  in  surprise  and  alarm. 

"  Oh,  missus  !  Oh,  mi§sus  !"  were  the  only  words  the 
frightened  negress  could  utter. 

"Merciful  heaven  !  what  has  happened?"  exclaimed 
Lizzie,  springing  to  her  feet,  in  undefined  terror. 
"Totty,  Totty,  tell  me,  or  1  shall  go  and  see." 

'*  Oh,  Miss  Lizzie  !  Oh,  Miss  Lizzie  !"  cried  the  giil, 
^alliiig  on  her  knees,  "  fur  dc  dear  Lord's  sake,  don't  go. 
Oh,  Miss  Lizzie,  it's  too  drefful  to  tell  !  It  would  kill 
you  ! 

With  a  wild  cry,  Lizzie  snatched  her  robe  from  the 
clinging  hands  tliat  held  it,  and  fled  from  the  room  down 
the  long  staircase.  There  was  a  crowd  round  the  parlor 
door  ;  all  the  servants  were  collected  there,  and  inside 
she  could  see  many  of  the  neighbors  gathered.  3he 
strove  to  force  iier  way  through  the  throng  of  appalled 
servants,  who  meclianically  made  way  for  her  to  uass. 

"  Keep  her  back — keep  her  back,  I  tell  you,"  cried  the 
voice  of  Dr.  Wiseman,  "  would  you  kill  her?" 

A  score  of  hands  were  extended  to  keep  her  back,  but 
they  were  too  late.  She  had  entered,  and  a  sight  met 
her  eyes  that  bent  the  blood  curdling  with  horror  to  her 
i)eart.  A  wild,  terrilic  shriek  rang  through  the  house,  as 
she  thr^w  up  both  arms  and  fell,  in  strong  convulsions 
ou  the  floor. 


..1' 


MS 

,1 


r  r      .11 


Gi^SY. 


CHAPTER  Vlir 


ji'i 


I 


GIPSY. 

'  A  little,  wild-eyed,  tawny  diild. 
A  fairy  sprite,  untamed  and  wild* 
Like  to  no  one  save  herself, 
A  laughing,  mocking,  gipsy  tW* 

EAR  after  year  glides  away,  and  wc  wondei 
vaguely  that  they  can  have  passed.  On  our 
way  to  the  grave  we  may  meet  many  troubles, 
but  time  obliterates  them  all,  and  we  learn 
to  laugh  and  talk  as  merrily  again  as 
though  the  grass  was  not  growing  between  our  face  and 
one  we  could  never  love  enough.     But  such  is  life. 

Ten  years  have  passed  away  at  St.  Mark's  since  the 
close  of  our  last  chapter  ;  ten  years  of  dull,  tedious  mo- 
notony. The  terrible  sight  that  had  met  Lizzie  Oran- 
more's  eyes  that  morning,  was  the  dead  form  of  her 
young  husband.  He  had  been  riding  along  at  his  usual 
reckless,  headlong  pace,  and  had  been  thrown  from  his 
horse  and  killed. 

Under  the  greensward  in  the  villi^e  church-yard, 
they  laid  his  world-weary  form  to  rest,  with  only 
the  name  inscribed  on  the  cold,  white  marble  to  tell  he 
had  ever  existed.  And  no  one  dreamed  of  the  youthful 
romance  that  had  darkened  all  the  life  of  Barry  Oran- 
more.  Lying  on  the  still  heart,  that  had  once  beat  so 
tumultuDusly,  they  found  the  miniature  of  a  fair  young 
face  and  a  long  tress  of  sunny  hair.  Wondering  silent- 
ly to  whcm  they  belonged,  good  Mrs.  Gower  laid  them 
aside,  little  dreaming  of  what  they  were  one  day  to  dis- 
coTer. 


M 


GIPSY. 


U 


the 


Lizzie,  with  her  usual  impulsiveness,  wept  and  sobbed 
for  a  time  inconsclably.  But  it  was  not  in  her  shallow, 
thoughtless  nature  to  grieve  long  for  any  one  ;  and  ere 
a  year  had  passed,  :he  laughed  as  gayly  %nd  sang  as 
merrily  as  ever. 

Sometimes,  it  may  be,  when  her  child — her  boy- 
would  look  up  in  her  face  with  the  large  dark  eyes  oi 
him  who  had  once  stolen  her  girlish  heart  away,  tears 
for  a  moment  would  weigh  down  her  golden  eyelashes  ; 
but  the  next  instant  the  passing  memory  was  forgotten, 
and  her  laugh  again  rung  out  merry  and  clear. 

And  so  the  ten  years  had  passed,  and  no  change  had 
taken  place  at  Sunset  Hal'  save  that  it  was  far  from  be- 
ing the  quiet  place  it  had  been  formerly. 

Has  the  reader  forgotten  Aurora,  the  little  foundling 
of  yelling  notoriety?  If  so,  it  is  no  fault  of  hers,  for 
that  shrill-voiced  young  lady  never  allowed  herself  to  be 
pushed  aside  to  make  room  for  any  one.  Those  tea 
years  at  least  made  a  change  in  her. 

See  her  now,  as  she  stands  with  her  dog  by  her  side, 
for  a  moment,  to  rest,  in  the  quaint  old  porch  fronting 
Sunset  Hill.  She  has  been  romping  with  Lion  this 
morning,  and  now,  panting  and  breathless,  she  pauses 
for  an  instant  to  prepare  for  a  fresh  race.  There  she 
stands  !  A  little,  slight,  wiry,  agile  figure,  a  little  thin, 
dark,  but  bright  and  sparkling  face,  with  smail,  irregular 
features,  never  for  amomei  t  at  rest.  With  a  shower  of 
short,  crisp,  dark  curls  streaming  in  the  b  'eeze,  every 
shining  ring  dancing  with  life,  and  fire,  and  mirth,  and 
mischie^.  And  with  such  eyes,  looking  in  .ler  face  you 
forgot  every  other  feature  gazing  in  those  "  lonnv  wjills 
of  brown,"  that  seemed  fairly  scintillating  wickedness. 
How  they  did  dance,  and  ilash,  and  sparkle,  with  youth, 
and  glee,  and  irrepressible  fun — albeit  the  darker  flame 
that  now  and  then  le^i-pcd  from  their  shining  depths  be- 


'm 


:l:^ 


.til      ■■    .^M 


7« 


GiPsy. 


»5    , 


spoke  a  wild,  fierce  spirit,  untamed  and  daring,  slumber' 
lug  in  her  heart,  quiet  and  unarouscd  as  "et,  but  which 
would  one  day  burst  forth,  scathing,  blighting  all  on 
whom  it  fell. 

And  such  is  Aurora  Gower.  A  wild,  dark,  e'.fish 
;;hangelir<g,  not  at  all  prcity,  but  the  most  bewitching 
sprite  withal,  that  ever  kept  a  household  in  confusion. 
Ccntinually  getting  into  scrapes  and  making  mischief, 
and  doing  deeds  that  would  have  been  unpardon:.ble  in 
any  one  else,  Aurora,  in  some  mysterious  way  of  her 
own,  escaped  censure,  a.id  the  most  extravagant  actions 
were  passed  over  wiLh  the  remark,  that  it  was  "just  like 
her — just  what  you  iwr)n  expect  from  a  gipsy."  Owing 
to  her  dark  skin  and  wild  habits,  "Gipsy  "  was  the  name 
by  which  Mrs.  Gowcr's protegee  was  universally  known. 
With  every  one  she  was  a  favorite,  for  though  always 
saucy,  often  impertinent,  and  invariably  provoking,  it 
was  impossible  to  be  angry  with  a  little  fairy  of  a  crea- 
ture whom  they  could  almost  hold  up  between  their 
finger  and  thumb. 

As  for  the  burly  old  squire,  he  could  as  soon  tlink 
of  getting  along  without  his  brandy  as  without  Gipsy. 
For  tliough  they  continually  quarreled,  he  abusing  her 
unmercifully,  and  she  retorting  impudently,  yet,  wnen 
Gipsy  at  the  end  would  flounce  out  in  a  towering  pas- 
sion, she  was  sure  a  few  hours  after  to  find   a  peace 
offering  trom  the  old  man,  in  the  shape  of  a  costly  gifi 
lying  on  her  table.     After  some  coaxing  she  would  con 
scni  lo  lorgive  him,  and   Squire  Erliston  and  his  little 
ward  Wv-ld  smoke  the    calumet  of    peace  (figuratively 
speaking);  but,  alas!  for  ihe  short-lived  truce^-ere  an- 
other hour   he  Avar  of  words  would  be  raging  *fast  and 
furious  "  once  more. 

Good  Mrs.  Gower  zealously  strove  to  impress  on  the 
wayward  elf  a  becoming  respect  for  the  head  of  the 


GIPSY. 


1% 


household  ;  and  sometimes,  in  a  fit  of  peniten::e,  Aurora 
would  promise  "not  to  give  Guardy  any  more  bile," 
but  being  by  nature  woefully  deficient  in  the  bump  of 
reverence,  the  promise  had  never  been  kept  ;  and  at  last 
the  worthy  housekeeper  gave  up  the  task,  in  despair. 

And  so  Aurora  was  left  pretty  much  to  follow  her 
"own  sweet  will,"  and  no  one  need  wonder  that  she 
grew  up  the  maddest,  merriest  elf  that  ever  danced  in 
the  moonlight.  At  the  age  of  eleven  she  could  ride 
with  the  best  horseman  for  miles  around,  hunt  like  a 
practiced  sportsman,  bring  down  a  bird  on  the  wing 
with  her  unerring  bullet,  and  manage  a  boat  with  the 
smartest  fisherman  in  St.  Marks.  Needle-work,  dolls, 
and  other  amusements  suitable  for  her  age,  she  regarded 
with  the  uluKiSt  contempt,  and  with  her  curls  streaming 
behind  her,  her  hat  swinging  in  her  hand,  she  might  be 
seen  Hying  about  the  village  from  morning  till  night, 
alwavs  running,  ior  siie  was  too  quick  and  impetuous  to 
walk.  In  tiie  stormiest  weather,  when  the  winds  were 
highest  and  the  sea  roughest,  she  would  leap  into  one  of 
the  fishermen's  boats,  and  unheeding  storm  and  danger, 
go  out  with  them,  in  spite  of  commands  and  entreaties 
to  the  contrary,  until  danger  and  daring  became  with 
her  second  nature.  But  while  Aurora  has  been  standi njj; 
for  her  picture  the  rest  of  the  family  have  assembled  iu 
the  breaktast-parlor  of  M<»unt  Sunset  Hall.  Languidly 
stretched  on  a  sofa  lay  Lizzie  Oranmore.  Those  ten 
years  have  made  no  change  in  her  ;  just  the  same  rose- 
eaf  complexion,  the  same  round,  little  graceful  figure, 
the  i-ame  coquettish  airs  and  graces  as  when  we  saw  "ler 
last.  She  might  readily  have  been  taken  for  the  elder 
sister  of  her  son,  Louis,  who  stood  by  the  window 
sketching  the  view  before  him. 

There  was   a   striking   resemblance   between    Louii 
and  his  dead  father ;  the  same  clear,  olive  complexion. 


^ 


Ml 


u 


g:fsy. 


1  *  \ 


4.: 


m ' 


f'!^ 


the  same  sable  locks  and  bold  bkck  eyes,  the  samt 
scornful,  curving  upper  lip,  and  the  same  hot,  rash,  im- 
petuous nature.  But  with  all  his  fiery  impetuosity  he 
was  candid,  open  and  generous,  the  soul  of  honor  and 
frankness,  but  with  a  nature  which,  according  as  it  was 
trained,  must  be  powerful  for  good  or  evil. 

Sitting  propped  up  in  an  easy-chair,  with  his  gouty 
leg,  swathed  in  flannel,  stretched  on  two  chairs,  was  the 
squire,  looking  in  no  very  sweet  frame  of  mind.  The 
morning  paper,  yet  damp  from  the  press,  lay  before  him  ; 
but  the  squire's  attention  would  wander  from  it  every 
moment  to  the  door. 

"Where's  that  little  wretch  this  morning?"  broke 
out  the  squire,  at  last,  throwing  down  his  paper  impa- 
tiently. 

"  I  really  can't  say,"  replied  Lizzie,  opening  her  eyes 
languidly.  "  I  saw  her  racing  over  the  hills  this  morn- 
ing, with  those  dreadful  dogs  of  hers.  I  expect  she  will 
be  back  soon." 

"  And  we  must  wait  for  her  ladyship  !"  growled  the 
squire.  "  I'll  cane  her  within  an  inch  of  her  life  if  she 
doesn't  learn  to  behave  herself.  *  Spare  the  child  and 
spoil  the  rod,'  as  Solomon  says." 

"  Here  she  comes  !"  exclaimed  Louis,  looking  up. 
"Speak  of  Satan  and  he'll  appear." 

"  Satan  !  She's  no  Satan,  I'd  have  you  know,  you 
foung  jackanapes  !"  said  the  squire,  angrily,  for  though 
always  abusing  the  "little  vixen,"  Aurora,  himself,  he 
would  suffer  no  one  die  to  do  it. 

"  Look,  look  how  she  dashes  along !"  exclaimed 
Louis,  with  kindling  eyes,  unheeding  the  reproof. 
"There!  she  has  leaped  her  pony  over  the  gate,  and 
now  she  is  standing  up  in  her  saddle  ;  and — bravo  '  well 
done,  Gipsy  !  She  has  actually  sprung  over  black  Jupe's 
head  in  a  flying  leap." 


GIPSY, 


IS 


While  he  spoke  Gipsy  came  running  ip  the  .  awn  to- 
ward  the  house,  singiug,  in  a  high,  shriil  ^oice,  at  iha 
ran: 


"  He  died  loDg,  long  ago,  long  ago— 

Ha  had  no  hair  on  the  top  of  hii  head, 
The  place  where  the  wool  ought  to  grow, 
Lay  dowE.  the  shovel  and  the  hoe^-o, 
Hang  up " 


h 


"Stop  that,  stop  that,  you  vixen  .  Stop  it,  I  tell  you 
or  I'll  hang  you  up  !"  said  the  squire,  angrily.  "  Where 
do  you  learn  those  vulgar  doggerels  ?" 

"  M«.ke  'em  up,  Guardy — every  one  of  'cm.  Ain't  I  a 
genius  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  you  scapegrace." 

"  No  wonder  you  don't,  seeing  there  never  was  a  ge- 
nius in  the  family  before ;  but  *  better  late  than  never,' 
you  know." 

"None  of  your  impertinence,  miss.  Give  an  account 
of  yourself,  if  you  please.  Where  were  you  this  morn- 
ing?    Answer  me /-^/.'" 

"Nowhere,  sir." 

"  Don't  tell  stories,  you  little  sinner.  Where  is  no- 
where ?" 

*  Over  to  Doctor  Spider's." 

"Gipsy,  my  dear,  why  will  you  persist  in  calling 
Doctor  Wiseman  nicknames  ?"  remonstrated  Lizzie. 

"  Why,  Aunt  Liz,  because  he's  just  like  a  spider,  foi 
all  the  world — all  legs,"  flippantly  replied  Gipsy. 

"  And  what  business  had  you  there,  monkey  ?  Didn't 
I  tell  you  not  to  go  ?  I  thought  I  told  you  never  to  go 
there  !"  said  the  squire,  in  rising  wrath. 

"  Know  it,  Guardy,  and  that's  just  the  renaon  I  went ' 

"  Because  I  forbade  vou,  th  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.' 


'•'♦■11 

'•■•t| 

•  '] },  I 


•'/I:^ 


'     •'9. 


GIFSr. 


V' 


I 


ii 


,j  s^iifi 


i 


w 


"You— y.:»u — you    disobedirTit    .ittlo    h.\\M%j.    you! 

Art    't  you  ashamed  of  y     ;rsr 

*•  Ashamed  ! — \Ami  of ,      .    .-i'"ca't  got  the  gout  in  my 

"  Gipsy,  you  dreadful  child,  hi  ,h !"  said  Lizzie,  in 
^I'lirm. 

*'  Oh,  let  her  go  on  !  She's  just  as  you  taught  her, 
madam.  And  as  to  you,  Miss  Gipsy,  or  Aurora,  c  r 
whatever  your  name  is,  let  me  tell  you,  the  gout  is  notn- 
ing  to  be  ashamed  of.  It  runs  in  the  most  respectable 
families,  miss." 

"  Lord,  Guardy  !  What  a  pity  I  can't  have  it,  too, 
and  help  to  keep  up  the  respectability  of  the  family  !" 

Louis  turned  to  tiie  window,  and  s  uggled  violently 
with  a  laugh,  which  he  endeavored  lo  change  into  a 
cough,  and  the  laugh  and  cough  meeting,  produced  a 
choking  sensation.  This  sent  Gipsy  to  his  aid,  who, 
after  administering  sundry  thumps  on  his  back  with  her 
little  closed  lists,  restored  him  to  composure,  and  the 
squire  returned  to  the  charge. 

"  And  now,  to  '  return  to  our  mutton,'  as  Solomon 
»ays  ;  or — hold  on  a  minute — was  it  Solomon  who  said 
thu?" 

XJifi  squire  paused,  and  placed  his  finger  reflectively  on 
ihc  point  of  his  nose,  in  deep  thought ;  but  being  uuable 
to  decide,  he  looked  up,  and  went  on  : 

'•  Yes,  miss,  as  1  was  saying,  what  took  you  over  to 
Deep  Dale  so  early  this  morning  ?    Tel'  me  that." 

"  Well,  if  I  must,  I  must,  I  s'pose — so  here  goes." 

"  Flallo,  Gipsy!"  interrupted  Louis.  "Take  care — 
you're  making  poetry." 

"  No,  sir  !  1  scorn  the  accusation  .**  said  Giusy,  draw- 
ing herself  up.  "  But,  Guardy,  since  I  must  tell  you,  ( 
went  over  to  see—ahem  ! — Archie  1" 


i 


1^  I 


ill! 


GIPSY  ff 

"You  did  '"  frur*?d  Guard/  "  Humph  lompb  1 
humph  !'• 

"  Don't  take  it  so  much  to  hear:,  Guard/.  No  us« 
grieving — 'specially  as  the  grief  might  settle  in  your 
poor  afliicted  leg — limb,  I  mean." 

"And  may  1  ask,  young^  lady,  what  you  could  po»- 
sibly  want  with  him  ?"  vsaid  the  squire,  ^sternly. 

'*  Oh,  fifty  things  !     He's  my  beau,  you  know." 

"  Your   beau  [—your  beau  ! — your   beau  !     My   co' 
science  !" 

*'  Yes,  sir,  we're  engaged." 

"You  are?  'Oh,  Jupiter,'  as  Solomon  says.  r*ra/, 
madam  (for  such  I  presume  you  consider  yourself),  when 
will  you  be  tvvclve  years  old  ?" 

"Oh,  as  soon  as  I  can.  I  don't  want  to  be  an  old 
maid." 

"  So  it  seems,  you  confounded  little  Will-o'-the-wisp. 
And  will  you  be  good  enough  to  inform  us  how  this 
precious  engaqement  came  about  ?"  said  the  squire,  with 
a  savage  frown. 

"  With  ph'jfisure,  sir.  You  see,  we  went  out  to  gather 
grapes  in  the  wood  one  day,  and  we  had  a  splendiferous 
time.  And  says  I,  *  Archie,  ain't  this  nice  ?' — and  says  he 
*  Yes' — and  says  1,  '  Wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  we'd  get  mar- 
ried?'— and  says  he,  '  Ves' — and  says  I,  *  W^i// you  have 
Lie,  though  ?' — and  says  he,  *  Yes' — and  says  I " 

"'Ain't  we  a  precious  pair  of  fools?'  and  say*  he, 
'Yes,'"  interrupted  the  squire,  mimicking  her.  "Oh, 
you're  a  nice  gal — you're  a  pretty  young  lady  !  " 

"  Yes,  ain't  I,  now  ?  You  and  I  arc  of  one  opinion 
there,  exactly.     Ain't  you  proud  of  me  ?" 

"  Proud  of  you,  you  bareiaced  little  wretch  !  I'a  like 
to  twist  vour  neck  for  you  !"  thundered  the  squire. 

"  Better  not,  Guardy ;  you'd  be  hung  for  m««> 
•laughter  if  you  did,  you  know." 


% 


,4! 


^M 


3*" 


m 
m 


• 


s 


I 


il 


vi 


5    'f 


ii. 


I 


f9  crpst: 

*'  You  don't  call  yourself  a  man.  I  hcpc  T  said  Louis. 

"Well,  if  I  don't,  I'm  a  girl— which  is  a  thousand 
times  nicer.  And  speaking  of  girls,  reminds  me  tha( 
Miss  Hagar's  got  the  dearest,  darlingest,  beautifuUst  little 
girl  you  ever  sot  your  eyes  on." 

•*  Miss  Hagar  ?"  they  all  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"  Ves,  to  be  sure.     Law  !  you  needn't  look  so  aston 
ished  ;  this  is  a   free  country.     And  why    can't    Miss 
Hagar  have  a  little  girl,  if  she  wants  to,  as  well  as  any- 
body else,  I'd  like  to  know  ?"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  rathcj 
indignantly. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Louis,  who  took  the  same  view  of 
the  case  as  Gipsy. 

"  Where  did  she  get  it  ? — whose  little  girl  is  it?**  in- 
quired Lizzie,  slightly  roused  from  her  languor  by  the 
news. 

"  Don't  know,  I'm  sure  ;  nobody  don't  She  was  ofl 
somewhere  poking  round  all  day  yesterday,  and  came 
home  at  night  with  tliis  little  girl.  Oh,  Louis,  she's  such 
a  dear  little  thing  !" 

"  Is  she  ?"  said  Louis,  absently. 

"  Yes,  indeed — with  a  face  like  double- refined  moon- 
light, and  long,  yellow  hair,  and  blue  eyes,  and  pink 
dress,  and  cheeks  to  match.  She's  twice  as  pretty  as 
Minette  ;  and  Miss  Hagar's  going  to  keep  her,  and  teach 
her  to  tell  fortunes,  I  expect," 

"  I  wonder  Dr.  Wiseman  allows  Miss  Hagar  to  fill 
the  house  with  little  beggars,"  said  Lizzie. 

"  Oh,  Spider's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Miss  Hagar 
has  money  of  her  own,  and  can  keep  her  if  she  likes. 
Pitj  if  she'd  have  to  ask  permission  of  that 'thing  of 
legs  and  arms,'  ererything  she  wants  to  do." 

"  Gipsy,  my  dear,  you  really  must  not  speak  so  of 
Dr.  Wiseman  ;  it's  positively  shocking, '  »aid  the  highlj 
•candalixed  Mrs.  Oranmore. 


GrPSY. 


79 


**  Well,  I  don't  care  ;  he  is  a  '  ihing  of  legf  tod  arms.' 
There,  now  !" 

"What's  the  little  girl's  name,  Gipsy?**  inquired 
Louis. 

^*  Celeste — isu'i  it  preity  ?  And  she— oh,  she's  a  dar- 
ling and  no  mistake.  Wouldn't  I  marry  her  if  1  was  a 
man— maybe  I  wouldn't." 

"  What's  her  other  name  ?" 

"  Got  none — ;it  ieust  she  said  so  ;  and,  as  I  didn't  like 
to  tell  her  she  told  a  story,  I  asked  Miss  Hagar,  and  slu 
told  me  to  mind  my  own  business  :  yes,  she  actually  did. 
Nobody  minds  how  tliey  talk  to  me.  People  haven't  a 
bit  of  respect  for  mc  ;  and  I  have  to  put  up  with  sass 
from  every  one.  I  won't  stand  it  much  longer,  either. 
There !" 

"  No,  I  wouldn't  advise  you  to,"  said  Louis.  "  Better 
fi/down  ;  no  use  in  standing  it." 

"Wiseman's  a  fool  if  he  lets  that  crazy  tramp,  his 
sister,  suppoit  beggars  in  his  house,"  exclaimed  the 
squire,  in  a  threatening  tone.  "  Lunatics  like  her  should 
aot  be  allowed  to  go  at  large.  He  has  no  business  to 
permit  it." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  him  trying  to  stop  it,"  said  Gipsy. 
•*  I'd  he  in  his  wool." 

*  You  r  said  the  squire,  contemptuously.  "  What 
•Tould  a  little  Tom  Thumb  in  petticoats,  like  you,  do  ?" 

"  Look  here,  now,  Guardy,  don't  call  a  lady  names. 
7/hen  you  speak  of  Tom  Thumb,  you  know,  it's  getting 
personal.  What  could  I  do  ?  Why,  I'd  set  his  house  on 
fire  some  night  about  his  ears,  or  some  day,  when  out 
shooting,  a  bullet  might  strike  him  accidentally  on  pur- 
pose. It  takes  me  to  defend  injured,  innocence,"  said 
Gipsy,  getting  up,  and  squaring-off  in  an  attitude  of  de- 
fiance, as  she  exclaimed  :  "Come  on,  old  Wiseman,  I'm 
ready  for  you  \" 


4 'I 


MM 

'I 


M 


I>  •;   1 


I  .! 


H 


«  I 


'*Wcll,  T  cMii't  allow  yoii  to  associate  with  beggars 
You  rnu;;t  never  go  !->  Deep  Dale  again.  1  car 't  coun- 
tenance ills  pruceciliiigs.  If  lie  choose  to  make  a  fuol  o( 
himself,  il'b  no  reu.soii  why  I  bhould  do  so  too." 

"  None  in  the  world,  sir — especially  as  nature  has 
savcil  you  iliat  troiilile." 

"You  Hudacious  little  demon,  youl  what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

•'  Ahem  !  I  was  just  observing,  sir,  that  it's  time  for 
breakfast,"  siiid  Gipsy,  demurely. 

"Humph!  iiiunph  !  well,  ring  for  Mrs.  Gower,  aDd 
hold  your  tont^ue  " 

"Soiry  I  can't  oblige  you,  Guardy.  But  how  can  I 
hold  my  tongue  and  eat  ?" 

*'  1  wish  I  could  find  something  to  take  the  edge  ofl 
it ;  it's  allogellier  too  sharp,"  growled  the  old  man  to 
himself. 

Mrs.  Gower,  fat  and  good-natured  as  ever,  entered  at 
this  moment ;  and,  as  they  assembled  round  the  table, 
the  squire — who,  though  he  generally  got  the  worst  of 
the  arij[uinent,  would  never  let  Gipsy  rest — again  re- 
sumed the  subject. 

"Mind,  monkey,  you're  not  to  go  to  Deep  Dale 
again  ;  I  forbid  y<Mi — positively  forbid  you." 

"  Lor  !  Guardy,  you  don't  say  so  !" 

"Don't  be  disrespectt^ul,  minx.  If  I'm  your  guardian 
you  shall  obey  me.  You  heard  me  say  so  before,  didn't 
you  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  think  so  ;  but,  then  you  say  so  many 
things,  a  body  can  ,  De  expected  to  remember  them  all. 
You  must  be  talking,  you  know  :  and  vou  mieht  as  well 
be  saying  that  as  anything  else.' 

"  But  I  am  determined  you  shall  obey  me  this  time, 
Do  you  hear?  At  your  peril,  minion,  dmrt  to  go  these 
again  i"  thundered  the  squire. 


I 
i 


M 


I 


th  beggars 
car't  coun 

ke  a  fool  o( 

•I 
o. 

aature  has 
lat  do  you 
t's  time  fot 
Gowcr,  aDd 

how  can  I 

he  edge  ofl 
old  man  to 

•,  entered  at 
i  the  table, 
le  worst  of 
— again  re- 
Deep    Dale 


ir  guardian 
sfore,  didn't 


-* 
i* 


'7* 


**  That  very  pretty,   Guardy,   won't  jou  mj  U    over 

Again,"  replieil  the  tantalizing  elf. 

"Gipsy!  oh,  Gipsy,  my  dear!"  chanted  the  ladies 
Gowcr  and  Oranmure,  in  a  horrified  dueL 

'*  Vou — you — you — little,  yellow  abomination  you  I 
You — you — skinny " 

"Squire  Lili.ton,"  said  Gipsy,  drawing  herself  up 
with  stately  dignity,  **  let  me  remind  you,  you  are  get- 
ting to  be  personal.  IIow  would  you  like  it  if  I  called 
y0u — you — you  red-faced  old  fright — you — you — you 
gouty- legged " 

'*  There !  there  !  that'll  do,"  hastily  interrupted  the 
squire,  while  a  universal  shout  of  laughter  went  round 
the  table  'U  the  ludicrous  manner  in  which  the  little  imp 
mimicKcd  his  blustering  tone.  "There,  there!  don't 
fay  a  word  about  it ;  but  mind,  if  you  dare  to  go  to  Dr. 
Wiseman's,  you'll  rue  it.     Mind  that." 

"All  right,  sir;  let  me  help  you  to  another  roll," 
said  Gipsy,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  as  she  passed  the 
plate  to  the  old  man,  who  looked,  not  om\j  daggers,  bui 
bowie-knives  at  the  very  least 


m 


ly  so  niany 
ir  them  ail. 
crht  as  well 

5  this  time, 
x>  go  thece 


m 


fV: 


"II 


'^  ! 


If 


ji    STORM, 


CHAPTER  IX. 


A  STORM  AT  MOUNT    SUNSIT 


"  At  this  Sir  Knight  grew  high  in  wrath. 
And  lifting  hands  and  eyes  up  both, 
Three  times  he  smote  his  stomach  stoat. 
From  whence,  at  longih.  tierce  wordft  broke  ont." 

HiTDIBMia 


OTTV  !  Totty  !  I  say,  Totty,  where  arc  you  : 
I  declare  to  screech,  I  never  saw  such  a 
provoking  darkey  in  my  life.  Nobody 
never  can  find  her  when  she's  wanted  I 
Totty  !  Totty  !  hallo,  Totty  \  I  want  you 
dreadfully,  it's  a  matter  of  life  and  death  !  If  that  girl 
doesn't  pay  more  attention  to  me,  I'll — I'll  discharge  her  ; 
I  will,  so  help  me  Jimmy  Johnston  !  Totty  !  Totty-y-y  !" 
So  calico  and  >shouted  Gipsy,  as  she  flew  in  and  out,  and 
up  and  down  stairs,  banging  doors  after  her  with  a  noise 
that  made  the  old  house  ring,  and  scolding  at  the  top  of 
her  voice  all  the  lime. 

"  Laws  !  Miss  Roarer,  here  I  is,"  said  Totty,  hurrying 
as  fast  as  possible  into  the  piesence  of  the  little  virago, 
to  get  rid  of  the  noise 

"Oh,  it's  a  wonder  you  came  !  I  s'posc  you*d  rather 
be  lounging  down  in  the  kitcherj  than  'tending  to  your 
mistress.  How  dare  you  go  away,  when  you  don't  know 
what  minute  I  may  want  you  ?     Hey  ?" 

"Good  Lor!  Miss  Roarer,  I  only  went  down  to  de 
kitchen  tc  get  my  breakfas'  'long  o'  the  res'.  How  you 
'spec  I's  gwine  tj  live  'thout  eatin'?    Yoia  alien  i§a  call 

jes'  the  contrariest  time,  allers " 

**  Hold  your  tongue  !"  exclaimed  hex  imperioui  little 


/f     ^TORM. 


«3 


mistress  ;  '*  don't  give  me  any  of  your  impermtce  !  There, 
curl  my  hair,  and  put  on  my  pretty  purple  riding-habit, 
and  make  me  juct  as  pret:y  as  ever  you  can.  Hurry 
up!" 

"Make you  pretty,  indeed  !"  muttered  the  indignant 
Totty  ;  "  'deed,  when  de  Lord  couldn't  dc  it,  'taint  very 
likely  I  can.  Come  'long  and  keep  still,  two  or  free 
minutes,  if  you  can.  1  never  knew  such  a  res'less  little 
critter  in  all  my  life." 

While  Gipsy  was  standing  as  quietly  as  her  fidgety 
nature  would  allow,  to  have  her  hair  curled,  Mrs.  Gower 
entered. 

"Well,  'Rora,  my  dear,  where  are  you  going  this 
morning,  that  you  are  dressing  in  your  best  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Gower,  glancing  at  the  gay  purple  riding-habit — for 
dress  was  a  thing  Gipsy  seldom  troubled  herself  about. 

"  Why,  aunty,  where  would  I  be  going  ;  over  to  Spi- 
der's, of  course  " 

"Oh,  Gipsy,  my  dear,  pray  don't  think  of  such  a 
thing  !"  exclaimed  the  good  woman,  in  a  tone  of  alarm. 
"  Your  guardian  wil)  be  dreadfully  angry." 

*^  Lor !  aunty,  I  know  that ;  there  wouldn't  be  any  fun 
in  it  if  he  wasn't,"  replied  the  elf. 

'  Oh,  Aurora,  child  !  you  don't  know  what  you're  do* 
ing.  Consider  all  he  has  done  for  you,  and  how  ungrate- 
ful t  w  of  you  to  disobey  h.m  in  this  manner.  Now,  he 
has  set  his  heart  on  keeping  you  from  Deep  Dale  (you 
know  he  never  liked  the  doctor  nor  his  family),  and  he 
will  be  terribly,  frightfully  angry  if  he  finds  you  have  dis- 
obeyed him.  Ride  over  the  hills,  go  out  sailing  or  shoot- 
ing, but  do  not  go  there." 

Gipsy,  who  had  been  yawning  fearfully  during  this 
address,  now  jerked  herself  away  from  Totty,  and  re- 
plied, impatiently  : 

**  W«ll,  ///  him  get  frightfully  angry ;  I'll  get  'fright- 


M 


I 


:  'M 


mi 


» 


I 


I  I 


3 


t4  u4    STORht, 

fully  an^^ry*   .00,  and   so  there  will   be  a  pair  of   us. 

Do  you  s'poi^e  I'd  miss  seeing  iliat  dear,  sweet,  little  girl 
again,  just  because  Guardy  will  stamp,  and  fume,  and 
roar,  and  scare  all  mankind  into  fits?  Not  I,  indeed. 
Let  him  cume  on,  wiio's  afraid,"  and  Gipsy  threw  her- 
self itjio  a  bta^e  altitude,  and  shouted  the  words  in  a 
voice  liiat  was  quite  imposing,  coming  as  it  did  from  so 
small  a  body. 

"Oh,  Gipsy,  ciiild !  consider,"  again  began  Mrs. 
Gowcr. 

"Oh,  aunty,  dear  !  I  won't  consider,  never  did;  don't 
agree  with  my  constitution,  no  how  you  can  fix  it 
Archie  told  me  one  day  when  I  was  doing  something  he 
considered  a  crazy  trick,  to  '  consider.'  Well,  for  his 
sake,  I  tried  to,  and  before  ten  minutes,  aunty,  I  felt 
symptoms  of  falling  iiiro  a  decline.     There  now  !" 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  my  dear !  you  are  incorrigible," 
sighed  Mrs.  Gower;  "but  what  would  you  do  if  your 
guardian  some  day  turned  you  out  of  doors  ?  You  have 
no  claim  on  him,  and  he  might  do  it,  you  knckv,  in  a  fit 
of  anger." 

"  If  he  did  " — exclaimed  Gipsy,  springing  up  with 
flashing  eyes. 

"  Well,  and  if  he  did,  what  would  you  do  ?** 

"  Why,  I'd  defy  iiim  to  his  face,  and  then  I'd  run  off, 
and  go  to  sea,  and  make  my  fortune,  and  come  back,  and 
marry  you  — no,  I  couldn't  do  that,  but  I'd  marry  Archie. 
Lor!  I'd  get  along  splendidly." 

"  Oh,  Gipsy  !  Gipsy  !  rightly  named  Gipsy  !  how  lit- 
tle you  know  what  it  is  10  be  friendless  in  the  world, 
you  poor  little  fairy  you  !  Now,  child,  be  quiet,  and 
talk  sensibly  to  me  for  a  few  minutes." 

"Oh,  bcHlicr,  aunty  !  I  can  t  be  quiet ;  and  as  to  talk- 
ing sensibly,  why  I  rather  think  I  am  doing  that  just 
mow.    There,  now— now  do,  please,  bottle  up  that  lecture 


A    STORM. 


youVe  got  for  me,  and  it'll  keep,  for  I  m  oft  *'    And 

darting  past  them,  slie  ran  down  stairs,  through  the  long 
hall,  and  was  fiying  toward  the  stables  in  a  twinkling. 

On  her  way  she  mei  our  old  friend,  Jupiter. 

"  Hallo,  Jupe  !  Oh,  there  you  are  !  Go  and  saddle 
Mignonne  'mediately.     I  want  him  ;  quick,  now  !" 

"Why,  Miss  Roarer,  iioni;y,  I'se  sorry  for  ter  diser- 
b'ige  yer,  rhile,  but  ole  mar/r  he  tole  me  not  to  let  yer 
get  Minnin  to-day,"  said  Jupiter,  looking  rather  uneasily 
at  the  dark,  wild,  little  face,  and  large,  lustrous  eyes,  in 
which  a  storm  was  fast  brewing. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  told  you  not  to  let  me  have 
my  pony  ?"  she  said,  (^r  ruther  hissed,  through  her  tight- 
ly-clenched teeth. 

"  Jes'  so,  Miss  Ro  irer  ;  he  tell  me  so  not  ten  minutea< 
ago." 

"  Now,  Jupiter,  look  here ;  you  go  right  off  and  sad- 
dle Mignonne,  or  it'll  be  the  worse  for  you.  D'ye 
hear?" 

"Miss  Roarer,  I  'clare  for't  I  dassent  Mas'r'll  half 
kill  me." 

"And  I'll  whole  kill  you  if  you  don't,"  Miid  Gipsy, 
with  a  wild  flash  of  her  black  eyes,  as  she  spi-ang  lightly 
on  a  high  stone  bench,  and  raised  her  riding-whip  over 
the  head  of  the  trembling  darkey;  "go,  sir;  go  iight 
off  and  do  as  I  tell  you  !" 

"  Laws  !  I  can't — 'deed  chile  !     I  can't ** 

Whack  !  whack  !  whack  !  with  no  gentle  hand  went 
che  whip  across  nis  shoulders,  interrupting  his  apology. 

"  There,  you  black  rascal  I  will  you  dare  to  disobey 
your  mistress  again  !"  Whack  !  whack  !  whack  !  "  If  you 
don't  bring  Mignonne  out  this  minute,  I'll  shoot  you 
dead  as  a  mackerel  !  There;  does  that  argument  over- 
come your  scruples  ?"  whack  !  whack  !  whack  I 

With   tomething   bctv^een  a  yell  and  a  howl,  poor 


'>u 


'.'fj 


i: 


■1 ,,, 


M 


A    STOJtll. 


i1 


Jupiter  sprung  back,  and  commenced  rubbing  his  afflicted 

back. 

**  Will  you  go  ?"  demanded  Gipsy,  raising  her  whip 

once  more. 

"  Yes  !  )  cs  !  Who  ever  did  see  such  a  'bolical  littlt 
limb  as  dat  ar.  Ole  mas'r  Ml  kill  me,  I  knows  he  will," 
ivhimpered  poor  Jupiter  as  he  slunk  away  to  the  stables, 
closely  followed  by  his  vixenish  little  mistress,  still 
poising  the  dangerous  whip. 

Mignonne,  a  small,  black,  fleet-footed,  spirited  Ara- 
bian, was  led  forth,  pawing  the  ground  and  tossing  his 
head,  as  impatient  to  be  off,  even,  as  his  young  mistress. 

"That's  right,  Jupe,"  said  Gipsy,  as  she  sprang  into 
the  saddle  and  gathered  up  the  reins  ;  "  but  mind,  for 
the  future,  never  dare  to  disobey  me,  no  matter  what  any- 
body says.  Mind,  if  you  do,  look  out  for  a  pistol-ball, 
some  night,  through  your  head." 

Jupiter,  who  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  but  what  the 
mad-headed  little  witch  would  do  it  as  soon  as  not,  began 
whimpering  like  a  whipped  school-boy.  Between  the 
Scylla  of  his  master's  wrath,  and  the  Charybdis  of  his 
willful  little  mistress,  poor  Jupiter  knew  not  which  way 
to  steer. 

"  Don't  cry,  Jupe — there's  a  good  fellow,"  said  Gipsy, 
touched  by  his  distress.  "  Keep  out  of  your  master's 
sight  till  I  come  back,  and  I'll  take  all  the  blame  upoc 
myself.     There,  now — off  we  go,  Mignonne  !" 

And  waving  her  plumed  hat  above  her  head,  with  at 
sh.  ,jt  of  triumphant  defiance  as  she  passed  the  house, 
Gipsy  verr.  gjiii oping  down  the  road  like  a  flash. 

The  ?ky.  which  all  the  morning  had  looked  thrcat- 


Abo -J 


r.as     ripicUy     graving     darker     and     darker. 

ajf  an  i.our  after  the  departure  of  Gipsy,  thf 
Btorrti  briS'  upon  them  \i\  tuil  fury.  The  wind  h'-wled 
fiercely  t»u' oir^h  di.?  ^orcst,  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  the 


A    STO&M. 


»7 


lightning  dashed  in  one  continued  sheet  of  blue  electric 
flame,  the  thundrr  crashed  peal  upon  peal,  until  heaven 
and  earth  seemed  rending  asunder. 

Tlie  frightened  inmates  of  Sunset  Hall  were  huddled 
together,  shivering  with  fear.  Th»?  doors  and  windows 
were  closed  f isi,  and  the  servants,  gray  with  terror,  were 
cowering  in  alarm  down  in  the  kitchen. 

**  Lor'  have  massy  'pon  us  !  who  ever  seed  sich  light- 
nin'  ?  'Pears  as  though  all  de  worl'  was  'luminated,  and 
de  las'  day  come  !"  said  Jupiter,  his  teeth  chattering  with 
terror. 

**  An'  Miss  Roarer,  she's  out  in  all  de  storm,  an'  ole 
nas'r  don't  know  it,"  said  Totty.  "  She  would  go,  spite 
of  all  Missus  Scour  said.  I  'clare  to  man,  that  dat  ar 
rampin,'  tarryfyin'  little  limb's  'nuff  to  drive  one  clar 
'stracted.  I  ain't  no  peace  night  nor  day  'long  o'  her 
capers.     Dar !" 

"  Won't  we  cotch  it  when  mas'r  finds  out  she's  gone," 
said  a  cunning-looking,  curly-headed  little  darkey,  whom 
Gipsy  had  nicknamed  Bob-o-link,  with  something  like  a 
chuckle,;  "good  Lor  I  jes'  see  ole  mas'r  a  swearin'  an' 
tearin'  round',  an*  kickin'  de  dogs  an'  niggers,  i' 
smashin'  de  res'  ob  de  furnitur'.  Oh,  Lor  !"  And  i 
dently  overcome  by  the  ludicrous  scene  which  fancy  ^ 
conjured  up,  Bob-o-link  threw  himself  back,  and  *nt 
off  into  a  perfect  convulsion  of  laughter,  to  the  h  ror 
ol  the  rest. 

While  this  discussion  was  going  on  below  staii  i,  a  tar 
different  scene  was  enacting  above. 

At  the  first  burst  of  the  storm,  Lizzie  and  Mrs. 
Gower  hastened  in  affright  to  the  parlor,  where  the 
squire  was  peacefully  snoring  in  his  arm-chair,  and 
Louis  was  btill  finishing  his  sketch. 

The  noise  and  bustle  of  their  entrance  aroused  the 
iquiie  from  bis  slumbers,  and  after  sundry  short  snorts 


S  *'"« 


h. 


•••*. 


• 


:     M 


*    * 


U  A     STOA\if. 

he  woke  up,  and  seeing  the  state  of  affsuts,  hit  first  in 
quiry  was  for  Gipsy. 

"  Where's  thai  little  abominaticn,  now  ?"  he  abruptly 
demanded,  in  a  t<;nc  that  denoted  his  temper  was  not  im- 
proved by  the  sudden  breaking  up  of  his  nap. 

All  were  silent.  Mrs.  Gower  through  fear,  and  the 
others  thrt)Ugh  ignorance. 

"  Where  is  she }  where  is  she,  I  say  ?"  thundered  the 
squire.     "  Doesn't  somebody  know  ?" 

"  Most  likely  up  stairs  somewhere,"  said  Louis.  "  Shall 
I  go  and  see  .'*'' 

"No,  you  sha'n't  *go  and  see.'  It's  the  duty  of  the 
women  there  to  look  after  her,  but  they  don't  do  it  She 
might  be  lost,  or  murdered,  or  killed,  fifty  times  a  day, 
for  all  they  care.  '  Who  trusteth  in  the  ungodly  shall 
be  deceived,'  as  b>)lomijn  says.     Ring  that  bell." 

Louis  obeyed  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  Totty,  quaking 
with  terror,  made  her  appearance. 

"Where's  your  young  mistress?  Where's  Miss 
Gipsy,  eh?"  demanded  the  squire,  in  an  awful  voice. 

"  Deed,  mas'r,  she's  rode  off.  I  couldn't  stop  hei 
nohow,  'deed " 

"Rode  off  I"  siiouted  the  squire, as,  forgetful  of  his 
gouty  leg,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  ;  "  rode  off  in  this  storm  ? 
Villains  !  wretches  I  demons  !  I'L  murder  every  one  of 
you  !  Out  in  this  storm  !  Good  Lord !  Clear  out, 
every  living  soul  of  you,  and  if  one  of  you  return  with- 
out her,  I'll — I'll  blow  his  brains  out !"  roared  the  old 
man,  purple  with  rage. 

"  Why,  grandfather,"  said  Louis,  while  the  rest 
cowered  with  fear,  *'  it  is  not  likely  Gipsy  is  cut  exposed 
to  the  storm.  There  arc  many  places  of  shelter  well- 
known  to  her  among  the  hiJis,  and  there  she  will  stay 
until  this  hurricane  is  over.     It  would  be  impossible  for 


f- 


A    STORM. 


any  one  .^  find  her  now,  even  thougb.  thej  could  i^de 
througli  this  storm." 

"Silence!"  thundered  the  squire;  "they  must  find 
her  !  Mere,  Jupe,  Jake,  Bob,  and  the  rest  of  you,  mount, 
and  off  in  scr.rch  of  Miss  Aurora  over  the  hills,  and  at 
.he  peril  of  your  life,  return  vvitliout  her.  Be  off!  go! 
ranish  !  and  mind  ye,  be  sure  to  bring  her  home." 

•'  Lau'  !  nr.rsV,  Mi>^s  Roarer  ain't  over  de  hills.  She's 
gene  over  to  Deep  Dale,"  said  Totty. 

"  What  !"  exclaimed  the  squire,  pausing  in  his  rage, 
aghast,  thunder  struck  at  the  news. 

"'Deed,  Lord  knows,  mas'r,  I  couldn't  stop  her." 

•'  Vou — you — you — diabolical  imp  you  !"  roared  the 
old  man,  seizing  his  crutch,  and  hurling  it  at  *  .'  head, 
as  Totty,  in  mortal  alarm,  dodged  and  fled  from  the 
room.  "  Oh,  the  little  demon  !  the  little  wretch  I  won't 
I  pay  her  for  this,  when  I  get  hold  of  her  I  the — the  dir 
obedient,  pngrateful,  undutiful  hussy  I  I'll  cane  her 
within  an  inch  of  her  life  !  I'll  lock  her  up  on  bread  and 
water  !  I'll  kee{)  her  in  the  house  day  and  night  I  I'll — 
oh,  Lord,  my  leg,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  groan,  as  he 
fell  back,  powerless,  between  rage  and  despair,  in  his 
seat. 

Mrs.  Gowerand  Liz/ie,  still  quaking  with  terror,  drew 
farther  into  the  corner  to  escape  his  notice,  while  Louis 
bent  still  lower  over  his  drawing  to  hide  a  smile  that 
was  breakinsr  over  iiis  face. 

At  thii  mom^rnt  a  fresh  burst  of  rain  and  wind  shook 
the  doors  and  windows  of  the  old  house,  and  with  it  the 
squire's  rage  broke  out  afresh. 

"  Call  Jupe  !  Be  off,  Louis,  and  tell  him  to  ride  over 
to  Deep  Dale  this  instant,  and  bring  that  little  fiend 
home  !  And  tell  him  if  he  doesn't  return  with  her  in 
less  than  half  an  hour,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  his  body  ! 


1 1 . 

fctd 


'is 


•'i' 


A    STOXM. 


\       I 


\i- 


Louis  accordinu;ly  repaired  to  the  k  tchen  and  deliv- 
ercti  the  order  to  pcxir  Jupiter — who,  bemoaning^  his  hard 
fate  in  b.nng   ohlL^^ed  to  serve  so  whimsical  a  master, 
was  forcetl  to  set  out  in  the  storm  in  search  of  the  oap«i 
cic..3  Gipsy. 

Half  ail  hour,  three-quarters  passed,  and  then  Jupiter, 
soakini;  witii  rain,  and  reeiiinc^  with  sweat,  came  gallop- 
ing back  ;  but  like  youn<^  Lochinvar,  immortalized  in  the 
song  : 

"  He  rode  unattended  and  rode  all  alone,** 

and  p:ray,  and  shaking,  and  trembling  with  fear  and  ex- 
pectation of  the  '*  wrath  which  was  to  come/'  he  pre- 
sented himself  before  his  master. 

"  Well,  sir,  whcre's  Miss  Gipsy  ?"  shouted  the  oJd 
man,  as  he  entenxl. 

*'  Mas*!,  I  couldn't  bring  her,  to  save  my  precious 
J.ife  ;  she  WDuldn't  come,  nohow.  I  tell  her  you  wanted 
her  in  a  dcsprit  hurry  ;  and  she  said,  s'posin'  you  waited 
till  your  hurry  was  over.  I  said  you  tole  me  not  to  come 
home  'thout  her  ;  and  she  said,  very  well,  I  might  stay 
all  night,  if  I  liked,  'cause  she  warn't  comin'  home  till 
to  morrcr.  I  tole  her  you  was  t'arin'  mad  ;  and  she  said, 
you'd  better  have  patience,  and  smoKC  your  pipe.  I 
couldn't  do  nothin'  'tall  with  her,  so  I  left,  an'  come 
back,  an'  dat's  all."  And  without  waiting  for  the  burst 
of  wrath  which  ho  saw  coming,  Jupiter  beat  a  precipitate 
retreat  to  the  lower  regions. 

Vou  should  liave  seen  the  wrath  of  Squire  Erliston 
then.  How  he  stamped,  and  raged,  and  swore,  and 
threatened,  until  he  nearly  frightened  Lizzie  into  hyste- 
rics, used  as  she  was  to  nis  fits  of  passion.  And  then,  at 
last,  when  utterly  exhausted,  he  ordered  the  servants  to 
go  and  prepare  a  large,  <  ipty  room,  which  had  long 
Deen  unused,  as  a  priso      or  Gipsy,  upon  her  return 


K  ,' 


dclW. 
s  hard 
laster, 
oapi  i 


Af/SS   If  AGAR, 


9' 


Everything  was  taken  out  of  it,  and  here  the  squire 
vowed  she  should  remsiin  until  she  had  learned  to  obey 
him  for  the  future.  Then,  relapsing  into  sulky  silence, 
he  sal  down,  **  nursing  his  wrtth  to  keep  it  wann,**  until 
She  return  of  the  little  delinquent. 


1 


i 


CHAPTER  X. 

MISS    HAGAR. 

*  Let  me  gaze  tor  a  moment,  that  ere  I  4i«, 
I  may  read  thee,  lady,  a  prophecy  : 
That  brow  may  beam  in  glory  awhile, 
That  ohcfk  may  bloom,  and  that  lip  raay  raifl9{ 
But  clouds  shall  darken  that  brow  of  snow, 
And  sorrows  blight  tha»  bosom's  glo»r." 

— L.  DATiaofi, 

[EANTIME,  while  t);e  squire  was  throwing  the 
household  of  Sunset  Hall  into  terror  and  con- 
sternaiion,  the  object  of  his  wrath  was  en- 
jovinr;  herself  with  audacious  coolness  at  Deep 
Dile. 

The  family  of  Doctor  Nicholas  Wiseman  consisted  ol 
snc  daughter,  a  year  o**  two  older  than  Gipsy,  a  nephew 
"ailed  Archie  Rivers,  and  a  maiden  step-sister,  Miss 
Hagar  Dcdley.  T)te  doctor,  who  was  naturally  grasping 
and  avaricious,  would  not  have  burdened  himself  with 
the  carf*  of  th(^se  two  had  it  been  anything  out  of  his  own 
pocket.  The  parents  of  Archie  Rivers  had  been  tolerabl) 
wealthy,  and  at  their  death  had  left  him  quite  a  fortune 
and  amply  remunerattxi  the  d:>ctor  for  taking  charge  of 
him  until  he  should  be  of  age  Miss  Hagarhad  a  slender 
incom:,  sufficient  for  her  wants,  p^viH  waft  permitted  a  room 


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of  herself. 

Deep  Dale  had  once  been  the  residence  of  a  wealthy 
and  aristocratic  family,  but  had  i)y  sc  me  unknown  meant 
pissed  from   their  hands  to  those  of  Doctor  Wiseman, 

It  was,  as  its  name  implied,  a  long,  deep,  sloping 
dale,  with  the  forest  of  St.  Mark's  towering  darkly  be 
hmo,  and  a  wide,  grassy  lawn  sloping  down  from  the 
front  The  house  itself  was  a  long,  low,  irregular  man<;ion 
of  gray  sandstone,  with  a  quaint,  pleasant,  old-fashioned 
look. 

Evening  was  now  approaching.  The  curtains  were 
drawn,  the  lamps  lighted,  and  the  family  assembled  in 
the  plainly,  almost  scantily,  furnished  sitting-room. 

By  the  tire,  in  a  large  leathern  arm-chair,  sat  our  old 
acquaintance,  the  doctor,  with  one  long,  lean  leg  crossed 
over  the  other,  one  eye  closed,  and  the  other  fixed  so 
iotcntly  on  the  lloor  that  he  seemed  to  be  counting  the 
threads  in  the  carpet.  Vears  have  done  anything  but  add 
to  his  charms,  his  face  never  looked  so  much  like  yellow 
parchment  as  it  did  then,  his  arms  and  legs  were  longer 
and  skinnier-looking  than  ever,  and  altogether,  a  more 
unprepossessing  face  could  hardly  have  been  discovered. 

By  the  table,  knitting,  sat  Miss  Hagar.  Her  tall,  thin 
figure,  and  grave,  solemn  face,  made  her  look  almost 
majestic,  as,  with  her  lips  firmly  compressed,  she  knit 
away  in  grim  silence.  Unlike  other  spinsters,  she  nei- 
ther petted  dogs  nor  cats,  but  had  a  most  unaccountable 
mania  for  fortune-telling,  and  had  been,  for  years,  the 
seereia  anJ  sibyl  oi  the  whole  neighborhood. 

In  a  distant  corner  of  the  room  sat  the  little  pr0tegei 
of  Miss  Hagar,  with  Gipsy  on  one  side  of  her,  and  Archie 
Rivers  on  the  other,  regarding  her  as  though  she  were 
ftome  sort  of  natural  curiosity.  And,  tnilj,  a  more  lovely 
child  could  scarcely  have  been  found. 


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She  appeared  to  be  about  the  same  age  ai  Gipsy,  but 
nas  taller  aiul  fiiorc  graceful,  with  a  beautifully  rounded 
fipure,  not  plump,  like  that  of  ujjst  children,  but  slender 
and  clei^'ant,  ami  lithe  as  a  willow  wand.  A  small,  fair, 
Kwect  face,  with  lorii;,  golden  hair,  and  soft,  dreamy  eye:i 
of  blue,  and  a  sniile  like  an  angel's. 

Such  was  Celeste  ! 

Such  a  contrast  as  she  was  to  Gipsy,  as  she  sat  witl; 
her  little  white  iiands  folded  in  her  lap,  the  long  golden 
lashes  fallininr  sliyly  over  the  blue  eyes  ,  her  low,  sweet 
voice  and  timid  manner,  so  still  and  gentle  ;  and  her 
elfish  companir)n,  with  her  dark,  bright  face,  her  eager. 
sparkliiij^.  restless  eyes,  her  short,  sable  locks,  and  her 
every  motion  so  quick  and  startling,  as  to  miake  one 
nervous  watchin:^:  her. 

Archie  Rivers,  a  merry,  good-looking  lad,  with 
roguish  blue  eyes  and  a  laughing  face,  sat,  alternately 
watching  tlie  fair,  downcast  face  of  Celeste,  and  the 
piquant,  gipsyisli  countenance  of  the  other. 

At  the  table  sat  Minnette  Wiseman,  a  proud,  superb- 
looking  girl  of  twelve.  Her  long,  jet-black  hair  fell  in 
glossy  braids  over  her  shoulders  ;  her  elbows  rested  on 
the  table  ;  her  chin  supported  by  her  hands;  her  large, 
glittering  black  eyes  fixed  on  Celeste,  with  a  look  of 
fixed  dislike  and  jealousy  that  was  never  to  die  out  dur- 
ing life. 

"  And  so  you  have  no  other  name  but  Celeste,*'  said 
Gipsy,  trying  to  peer  under  the  drooping  lashes  resting 
on  the  blue-veined  cheek.  "Now,  if  that  isn't  funny! 
Everybody  has  two  names  but  you — even  me.  I  have 
two  names." 

*' Yes,  Gipsy  Gowcr.  There  is  something  odd  and 
elfinish  in  the  very  name,"  said  Archie,  laughing. 

"Elfinish?  It's  no  such  thing.  It's  a  great  deal 
prettier  than  yours,  Archie  Rivers  I    And  wh«r«  didyoa 


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live  before  you  came  here,  Celeste  ?"  continued  Gipsy, 
returning  to  thj  charge. 

"  With  Aunt  Katie,"  replied  Celeste,  softly. 
"  And  where  is  she  now  .'*"  went  on  Gipsy. 
"Dead!"  said  the  child,  while  her   lip  trembled,  anc 
?.  tear  fell  on  the  little  brown  hand  lying  on  her  own. 
;  )o  tell  I  and  I've  made  you  cry,  too.     Now,  if  that 
Is':.  »,oo  bad.     Do  you  know.  Celeste,  I  never  cried  in 

**  Oh,  what  a  fib  I"  exclaimed  Archie.  "  You  were 
tlie  horridest  young  one  to  cry  ever  I  heard  in  my  life 
You  did  nothing  but  yell  and  roar  from  morning  till 
night." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  !  I  don't  believe  it !"  inignantly 
exclaiiiied  Gipsy.  "  I'm  sure  I  was  too  sensible  a  baby 
to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  Anyway,  I  have  never  cried 
since  I  can  remember.  And  as  to  fear — were  you  ever 
afraid  ?"  she  asked,  suddenly,  of  Celeste. 

"  Oh,  yes— often." 

Did  you  ever?  Why,  you  look  afrsid  now.  Are 
you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  My  !     What  of  ?" 

"  Of  you,"  said  Celeste,  shrinking  back,  shyly,  frou: 
her  impetuous  little  questioner. 

"  Oh,  my  stars  and  garters  !  Afraid  of  /w/,  and  afte* 
I've  been  so  quiet  and  good  with  her  all  the  evening  !" 
ejaculated  Gipsy  ;  while  Archie,  who  was  blessed  with 
:i  lively  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  leaned  back  and 
l?ughed  heartily. 

"  Well,  after  that  I'm  never  going  to  believe  there's 
anything  but  ingratitude  in  fAis  world,"  said  Gipsy, 
with  an  emphasis  on  the  "  f/u's  "  which  seemed  to  denote 
ihe  /tad  met  with  srratitude  in  another. 


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But  tears  filled  the  gentle  eyes  of  Celeste,  as  she 
looked  up,  and  said  : 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you're  not  angry  with  mc.  I  didn'i 
mean  to  offend  you,  I'm  sure.     I'm  so  sorry." 

"Oh,  it's  no  matter.  Nobody  minds  what  they  saj) 
to  me.  I'm  used  to  it.  But  it's  so  funny  you  should  be 
afraid.     Why,  I  never  was  afraid  in  my  life." 

"That's  true  enough,  anyway,"  said  Archie,  with  ^s 
assenting  nod. 

"  There's  Guardy  now.  Oh !  won't  he  be  awful 
when  I  get  home — but  laws  !  who  cares !  I'll  pay  him 
off  for  it,  if  he  makes  a  fuss.  I  sha'n't  be  in  his  debt 
long,  that's  one  comfort." 

"  Do  you  remember  how  dolefully  Jupiter  looked  as 
he  came  in  for  you,  all  dripping  wet ;  and  when  you 

told  him  you  wouldn't  go,  he "  and  overcome  by  the 

ludicrous  recollection,  Master  Archie  again  fell  back  in 
a  paroxysm  of  laughter. 

"  What  a  fellow  you  are  to  laugh,  Archie  !**  remarked 
Gipsy.  "  You  astonish  me,  I  declare.  Do  you  laugh 
much,  Celeste  ?" 

"  No,  not  much." 

"  That's  right — I  don't  laugh  much  either — I'm  too 
dignified,  you  know  ;  but  somehow  I  make  other  people 
laugh.  There's  Archie  now,  for  everlasting  laughing ; 
but  Minnette — do  you  know  I  never  saw  her  laugh  yet- 
that  is,  really  laugh.  She  smiles  sometimes  ;  not  a 
pleasant  smile  either,  but  a  scornful  smile  like.  I  say 
Minnette,"  she  added,  raising  her  voic©,  "  what  is  the 
icason  you  never  laugh  ? ' 

"None  of  your  business,"  rudely  replied  Minnette. 

"The  Lord  never  intended  her  face  for  a  smiling 
one,"  said  Miss  Hagar,  breaking  in,  suddenly.  "And 
you,  you  poor  little  wild  eaglet,  who,  a  moment  ago, 
boasted  you  had  never  wept,  you  shall  yet  shed  tears  of 


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blood.  The  bird  has  its  eyes  put  out  with  red-hot  iron 
before  it  can  be  mride  to  sing  sweetly ;  and  so  you,  too, 
poor  bird,  musL  be  blirided,  even  though  you  should  flut« 
ter  and  beat  \  ourseif  to  death,  trying  to  break  through 
♦.ii«  bars  of  your  cage." 

*'  Humph  !  I'd  like  to  see  them  trying  to  put  my  eyes 
fsjit/'  said  Gipsy.  ''I  guess  I'd  make  them  sing,  and  on 
the  wrong  side  of  their  mouths,  too — at  least,  I  think  I 
should  !" 

"Oh,  Miss  Hagar,  tell  us  our  fortunes — you  haven't 
done  so  tliis  lontj^  time,"  exclaimed  Archie,  jumping  up. 
"Here  is  Gipsy  wan^s  to  know  hers,  and  Celeste's,  too; 
and  as  for  me.  I  kno  r  the  future  must  have  something 
splendid  in  store  for  so  clever  a  fellow,  and  I'm  anxious 
to  know  it  beforeliand." 

"  Don't  be  too  anxious,"  said  Miss  Hagar,  fixing  her 
gloomy  eyes  propuctically  on  his  eager,  happy  face ; 
"troubles  are  soon  enougli  when  they  come,  without 
wishing  to  forestall  them." 

Why,  Miss  Hagar,  you  don't  mean  to  say  I'm  to 
have  troubles?"  cried  Archie,  laughing.  "If  they  do 
come,  I'll  laugh  in  their  face,  and  cry,  'Never  surren- 
der.' I  don't  believe,  though,  my  troubles  will  be  very 
heavy." 

"  Yes,  the  heaviest  troubles  that  man  can  ever  know 
jhall  be  thine,"  said  the  oracle,  in  her  deep,  gloomy 
?ou;e.  "The  day  will  come  when  despair,  instead  of 
laughter,  will  fill  your  beaming  eyes;  when  the  smile 
ihall  have  left  your  lip.  and  the  hue  of  health  will  give 
place  to  the  djsky  %\o  \'  of  the  grave.  Yes,  the  day  will 
;omc  when  the  wrong  you  may  not  quell  shall  cling  to 
yoii  like  a  garment  of  flame,  crushing  and  overwhelming 
you  and  all  you  love,  in  its  fiery,  burning  shame.  The 
day  will  come  when  one  for  whom  you  would  give  your 
life  shall  desert  you  f:>r  your  deadliest  enemy,  and  1< 


MTSS     TTAGAR. 


97 


fou  to  despair  n,n(i  woe.     Such  is  the  fate  I  have  read  in 
the  stars  for  you." 

**  La  I  Archie,  what  a  nice  time  you're  going  to  have/ 
saiJ  ihe  incorrii^iblc  Gipsy,  breaking  the  impressive 
silence  that  foilowcd  the  sibyl's  words — "when  all  that 
romes  to  pass  I     It  will  be  as  good  as  a  play  to  you." 

'•  Miss  Hagar  must  have  sat  up  ail  last  night  getting 
that  pretty  speecli  b}'-  heart,"  said  Minnette,  fixing  her 
mocking  black  eyes  on  t!ie  face  of  the  spinster.  "  How 
v/ell  she  repealed  ii  !  She'd  make  her  fortune  on  the 
stage  as  a  tragedy  queen." 

"  Scoffer  !"  said  the  sibyl,  turning  her  prophetic  eyes 
on  the  deridin;>:  lace  of  the  speaker,  while  her  face  dark- 
ened, and  her  stern  mouth  grew  sterner  still.  "Oneday 
that  iron  heart  of  iJiine  sh;i,il  melt ;  that  heart,  which,  as 
yet.  is  sealed  with  granite,  shall  feel  every  fiber  drawn 
out  by  the  roots,  to  be  cast  at  your  feet  quivering  and 
bleeding,  unvalued  and  unoared  for.  Come  hither,  and 
let  me  read  your  future  in  your  eyes." 

"  No,  no  !"  said  Minnette,  shaking  back,  scornfully, 
her  glossy  black  hair.  ''Prate  your  old  prophecies  to 
the  fools  who  belij.  ve  you.  I'll  not  be  among  the  num- 
ber." 

'*  Unbedever,  I  heed  it  not  !"  said  Miss  Hagar  as  she 
rose  slowly  to  her  teet  ;  and  the  light  of  inspiration 
feathered  in  her  eyes  of  gray,  as,  swaying  to  and  fro,  sh« 
chanted,  in  a  wild,  dirge-like  tone  * 


'*  Beware  1  beware  1  for  the  time  will  com**— 
A  blighted  heart,  a  ruined  hom«. 
In  the  dim  future  I  foresee 
A  fate  far  worse  tnan  death  for  thee.** 


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bold,  bright  eyes,  that,  in  spite  of  all  their  boldness^ 
quailed  before  her  steady  gaze. 


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"  Good- gracious,  Miss  Hagar,  :f  you  haven  t  ncarlj 
frightened  this  little  atomy  into  fits!"  said  Gipsy.  "1 
declare,  of  all  the  little  cowards  ever  ivas,  sne's  the  great 
est !  Now,  if  I  thought  it  wouldn't  scare  tne  life  oul  of 
her,  I'd  have  my  fortune  told.  If  everybody  else  is  gf.  iiig 
to  have  such  pretty  things  happen  to  them,  I  doL.*t  se^ 
why  I  shouldn't,  too." 

"  Come  here,  then,  and  let  me  read  thy  fate,"  said 
Miss  Hagar.  "  The  spirit  is  upon  me  to-night,  and  it 
may  never  come  more." 

"All  right.  Archie,  stop  grinning  and  'tend  this 
little  scary  thing.     Now,  go  ahead,  Miss  Hagar." 

The  seeress  looked  down  solemnly  into  the  dark, 
piquant  little  face  upturned  so  gravely  to  her  own  ;  into 
the  wicked  brown  eyes,  twinkling  and  glittering  with 
such  insufferable  mischief  and  mirth  ;  and,  bending  her 
tall  body  down,  she  again  chanted,  in  her  dreary  tone  : 

"Thou  wast  doomed  from  thy  birth,  oh,  ill-fated  child  ; 
Like  thy  birthnight,  thy  life  shall  be  stormy  and  wild  ; 
There  is  blood  on  thine  hand,  there  is  death  in  thine  eye 
And  the  one  who  best  loves  thee,  by  thee  shall  he  die  /" 

-'Whew^!  if  that  ain't  pleasant!  I  always  knew  I'd 
be  the  death  of  somebody  !"  exclaimed  Gipsy.  "  Won- 
der who  it  is  going  to  be  ?  Shouldn't  be  s'prised  if  'twas 
Jupiter.  I've  been  threatening  to  send  him  to  Jericho 
ever  since  I  can  remember.  La  !  if  it  comes  true,  won'i 
Minette,  and  Archie  and  I  be  in  a  *  state  of  mind*  one  cA 
these  days  !  I  say,  Celeste,  come  over  here,  and  let':; 
have  a  little  more  of  the  hc"rible.     I  begin  to  like  it." 

"  Yes,  go,  Celeste,  go  said  Archie,  lifcing  her  oil 
her  seat. 

But  Celeste,  with  a  stifled  cry  of  terror,  corered  her 
iace  with  her  hands,  and  shrank  back. 


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*'  Coward  !'  ex  claimed  Minnette,  with  a  scornful  flash 
of  her  black  6305. 

*'  Little  goose  !"  said  Gipsy,  rather  contemptuously  ; 
"  what  arc  you  afraid  of  ?     Go  I  it  won't  hurt  you." 


"Oh,   no,    no! — no,   no! — no. 


no  I"  cried  the  child, 
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crouching  farther  back  in  terror 
can't  listen  to  siicli  awful  things." 

**  Let  her  stay,"  said  Miss  Hagar,  seating  herself 
moodily.  *'  1  ime  enougii  for  her — poor,  trembling  dove  ! 
— to  know  the  future  when  its  storm-clouds  gathe;* 
darkly  over  her  head.  Let  her  alone.  One  day  you  may 
all  think  of  my  words  to-night." 

'*  There  !  there  !  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself  any 
longer,  Hagar,"  impatiently  broke  ir  the  doctor.  "  Leave 
the  little  simpletons  in  peace,  and  don't  bother  their 
brains  with  such  stuff." 

"  Stuff  !"  repeated  Miss  Hagar,  her  eyes  kindling  with 
indignation.  "  Take  care ;  lest  I  tell  you  a  fate  more 
awful  still.  I  speak  as  I  am  inspired  ;  and  no  mortal 
man  shall  hinder  me." 

"  Well,  croak  away,"  said  her  brother,  angrily,  "but 
never  again  in  my  presence.  I  never  knew  such  ao  old 
fool  !'  he  muttered  to  himself  in  a  lower  tone. 

He  started  back  almost  in  terror,  as  he  ceased ;  for 
standing  by  his  side,  with  her  eyes  fairly  blazing  upon 
him  wifh  a  wild,  intense  gaze,  was  the  elfish  Gipsy.  She 
looked  so  like  some  golden  sprite — so  small  and  dark, 
with  such  an  insufferable  light  in  her  burning  eyes — 
that  he  actually  shrank  in  superstitious  terror  from  her. 

Without  a  word,  she  glided  away,  and  joined  Archie 
in  the  corner,  who  was  doing  his  best  to  cheer  and  amuse 
the  timid  Celeste 

During  the  rest  of  the  evening,  Gipsy  was  anusually 
silent  and  still ;  and  her  little  face  would  at  times  wev 
a  puzzled,  thoughtful,  look,  all  unused  to  it 


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*  What  in  th6  world's  got  into  you,  Gipsy  V  Asked 
Archie,  at  length,  in  surprise.  "  What  are  you  looking 
fo  solemn  5ibi)ut  ?" 

''Archie,"  slie  said,  looking  up  solemnly  in  his  face, 
'*»m  I  possessed  f 

"Possessed!  Why,  yes,  I  should  say  you  were- - 
possessed  by  the  very  spirit  of  mischief !" 

"  Oh,  Archie,  it's  not  that.  Don't  you  know  it  telli 
in  the  Bible  about  people  being  possessed  with  demons* 
Now,  Archie,  do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

"  What  a  question  !  No  ;  of  course  not,  you  little 
goose.     Why  ?" 

"Because  when  >^<r,"  pointing  to  the  doctor,  "said 
what  he  did,  I  just  felt  as  if  something  within  me  was 
forcing  me  to  catcli  him  by  the  throat  and  kill  him.  And, 
Archie,  1  could  hardly  keep  from  doing  it ;  and  I  do  be- 
lieve I'm  possessed." 

This  answer  seemed  to  Master  Archie  so  comical  that 
he  went  off  into  another  roar  of  laughter  ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  it,  he  rolled  off  his  seat  upon  the  floor — which 
event  added  to  his  paroxysm  of  delight. 

The  doctor  gro  .vied  out  certain  anathemas  at  this  ill- 
timed  mirth,  and  ordered  Master  Rivers  off  to  bed. 
Then  Miss  Hagar  folded  up  her  work,  and  taking  Celeste 
with  her,  sought  her  own  room,  where  a  little  trundle- 
bed  had  been  prepared  for  the  child.  And  Minnette — 
who,  much  against  her  will,  was  to  share  her  room  with 
Gipsy,  for  whom  she  had  no  particular  love — got  up  and 
lit  the  night-lamp,  and,  followed,  by  the  willful  fay,  be^ 
took  herself  to  rest. 

The  next  morning  dawned  clear,  sunshiny  and  bright. 
Immediately  after  breakfast,  Gipsy  mounted  Mignonne, 
and  set  out  to  encounter  the  storm  which  she  knew  awaited 
Imt  at  Sunset  HalL 


GirSY    OUTWITS    TUB    SQUiMJL       x»i 


CHAPTER  XI. 


OIPSY    OUTWITS   THE    SQUIKB 


.1  ■  ■:   ll 


•  f 


"'Then  on  his  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercamc  tlie  aslicn  hue  of  ape  ; 
Fierce  lie  broke  lorili  ;   '  And  dar'st  thou,    mta^ 
To  board  lini  lioii  hi  liis  den, 
The  Doui,das  in  his  hall  ?'  " — Ma&mion. 


'TH'SV   ro<.le  along,  singing-  ti^ayly,  and  th'.nking, 

wiih  an  Inward  cinic'.vic,  of  the  lowering  rags 

vviiit-'fi  •'  Clnardy"  mnsr.  be  in.     As  she  entered 

the  yard  siic  encoantered  Jupiter,  who  looked 

upon  her  wUli  eyes  full  of  fear  and  warniuf^. 

"Hallo,  .Inpel   I  r>ce   you    haven't  *  shuiBed    oil  this 

mortal   coil'  yet,   as   J^ouis   says.     I    suppose  you  got  a 

blowing   up   last  nis^iit,    tor  coming  home  without  me, 

eh?" 

*'  Miss  Roarer,  honey,  for  mussy  sake,  don't  'front 
mas'r  to-day,"  exclaimed  Jupiter,  with  upraised  hands 
and  ey  es  ;  "dar'siio  tellin'  what  he  might  do,  chile.  I 
'vises  you  to  p^o  to  bed  an'  say  you's  sick,  or  somofin, 
caze  he'd  jes'  ;vs  lief  kill  you  as  not,  he's  so  t'arin'  mad." 
"Nonsense,  y  )U  old  simpleton!  Do  you  think  I'd 
•tell  sucli  a  lie  ?  Let  him  rage  ;  I'll  rage  too,  and  keep 
him  in  countenance." 

"  Miss  Roarer,  if  you  does,  dar'll  be  bloodshed,  anJ 
den  I'll  be  took  up  for  all — I  knows  dar  w.ll,'*  said  poor 
Jupiter,  in  a  whimpering  tone.  "  Dis  comes'  o'  livin' 
with  ladies  what  ain't  ladies,  and  old  gen'lemen  what's 
got  de  old  boy's  temper  in  dem." 

"  Why,  you  old  good-for-nothing,  do  you  mean  to 
•ay  I'm  not  a  lady  '"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  indignantly. 


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192        GIPSY    OUTWITS    THE    SQUIRM, 

"  Jcs*  so,  Miss  Roarer,  T  don't  care  cf  ycr  docs  whip 
mc — dar  !  S'posc  a  lady,  a  r/;al  lady,  would  go  for  to 
«hc<jt  a  poor  nip^ger  what  ain't  a  doing  no  harm  to  no- 
body, or  ^o  ridin'  (UJt  all  hours  ob  de  night  9l.s you  do. 
I  V.J  !  s.ands  to  reason,  dcy  wouldn't,  an' dat's  de  trufc 
?»ovv,  el  I  ii  a  i^udd-lor-noliiin*      Dar  !" 

"  Vou  agc;ravariMg  old  Jupiter,  you,  I'll  dar  you  if 
■•(^u  n;ive  trie  any  niMrc  of  your  impudence,"  said  Gipsy, 
Cotirishiiig  iier  whip  over  her  head. 

"  Mlsb  Roarer,"  bej.;an  Jupiter,  adroitly  ducking  his 
head  to  avoid  a  blow. 

"Silence,  sir  !  Don't  *  Miss  Roarer*  me.  Keep  youi 
idvice  till  it's  called  f(jr,  and  take  Mignonne  off  to  the 
stables,  an'  nib  him  down  well  ;  and  if  you  leave  one 
speck  of  duft  on  him,  111  h^ave  you  to  guess  what  I'll  dc 
to  you,"  And  so  saying,  Gipsy  gathered  up  her  riding- 
habit  in  her  hand,  and  ran  up  the  broad  step,  singiog  at 
the  top  of  her  voice  : 

*  Oh  !  whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 
Oh  I  whistle  an>l  I'll  conie  to  you,  my  lad  ; 
Thouj^Ii  Guurdy  anJ  aimty,  an'  a'  should  go  mad, 
Just  whistle  ai»'  I'll  come  to  you,  ray  lad." 

"  Gipsy,  Gip^y,  husli,  child  !     Your  guardian  is  dread 
fully  angry  with  you,  and  Vv^ill  punish  you  very  severely 
I'm  afraid,"  said  31  rs.  Gowcr,  suddenly  appearing  from 
the  dining-room.     "  This  reckless  levity  will  make  mat- 
ters worse  if  he  hears  you.     Oh,   Gipsy,  how  could  you 
:io  such  an  outrageous  thing  ?" 

*•  La,  auniy  I  I  haven't  done  any  outrageous  thing' 
tbat  I  know  of." 

"  Oh,  child  !  you  know  it  was  very  wrong,  lery  wrong, 
of  you,  indeed,  to  stay  at  Deep  Dale  all  night  againit  hit 
express  comraands." 


GIPSY    OU TV/ITS    THB    SQUIRM.       i»j 


ff! 


'  Now,  auufy,  I  don't  see  anything  ^ery  wrong  \X.  all 
•tout  it.     I  orJy  wanted  to  have  a  little  fun." 

"Fun  !  Oh  !  you  provoking  little  goose  I  he'll  pun- 
ish you  very  severely,  I'm  certain." 

"Well,  let  him,  then.  I  don't  care.  I'll  pay  him  oS 
for  it  some  time — sec  if  I  don't.  What  do  you  s'pos»« 
he'll  do  to  me,  aunty  ?  Have  me  tried  by  court-martial. 
or  hold  u  coroner's  inquest  on  top  of  me,  or  whit  ?" 

"  He  is  going  to  lock  you  up  in  that  old  lumber-room, 
up  in  the  attic,  and  keep  you  there  on  bread  and  water, 
he  says." 

"Well,  now,  I'll  leave  it  to  everybody,  if  that  isu'i 
barbarous.  It's  just  the  way  the  stony-hearted  fathers 
in  the  story-books  do  to  thei/  daughters,  when  they  lali 
in  love,  and  then  their  beauo  come,  filled  with  love  and 
rope  ladders,  and  off  they  j^-o  through  the  window.  1  oay, 
aunty,  is  there  any  chajue  lor  me  to  get  thioug'n  the 
window  ?" 

"No,  indeed,  they  jiO  fastened  outdde  with  wooden 
shutters  and  iron  boi^.-.  There  is  no  chance  of  escape, 
80  you  had  best  be  very  good  and  penitent,  and  beg  his 
pardon,  and  perh.tpi  he  may  forgive  you." 

"Beg  his  paif^iOn  !  Ha  !  ha!  ha!  aunty,  I  like  that 
wouldn't  Archie  iaugh  if  he  heard  it.  Just  fancy  me, 
Gipsy  Gowei,  down  on  my  knees  before  him,  whimper- 
ing and  snufflii^g,  and  a  tear  in  each  eye,  like  a  small 
potato,  and  begging  his  serene  highness  to  forgive  me, 
and  I'll  never  do  it  again.  Oh !  goodness  gracious, 
just  fanc}^  what  a  scene  it  would  be !" 

"  You  pjovoking  little  minx  I  I  am  sure  any  otHei 
little  girl  would  beg  her  guardian's  pardon,  when  she 
knew  she  did  wrong." 

"  Piu  I  dont  know  that  I've  did  wrong.  On  the  con- 
trary, J  nfiow  Tve  did  rights  and  I'm  going  to  do  it  ovct 
again  'c.c.  O/Qt  chance — there  !" 


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l«4        GIPSY    OUTIVJTS     THE    SQC^IJfM, 


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'*Oh.  Gipsy  !— child — yoiia;e  perfectly  incorrgiblc. 
I  desp:iir  of  ever  beiiii?  able  to  do  anything  with  you. 
As  I  toll!  yoii  before,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  ycui 
g'iardii:i  turned  yv)U  out  of  doors  for  your  conduct." 

"And  a<  1  io\d  you  before,  aunty,  I  would  not  want  bci- 
ier  fun.  Aicliic  Rivers  is  going  to  West  Point  soon,  ar.d 
Til  go  wi:h  him  and  *  do  my  country  some  service'  in 
the  next  war." 

"If  he  turned  you  out,  Gipsy,  it  would  break  my 
hearr,"  said   Mrs.  Gower,  plaintively. 

"  Ves,  and  1  ^  uppose  it  would  break  mine  too,  but  I 
luckily  dou't  li.ippcn  to  have  a  heart,"  said  Gipsy,  who 
never  by  any  chance  could,  as  she  called  it,  "do  the  sen- 
timetual."  "  However,  aunty,  let's  live  in  the  sublime 
hope  ih.it  you'll  bro'il>:  the  necks  of  two  or  three  hundred 
chickens  and  geo^e,  before  you  break  your  own  heart 
yet.  And  1  procest,  here  comes  Guardy,  stamping  and 
fumini^  up  tiie  huvn.  Clear  »)(»t,  aunly,  for  I  expect  he'il 
hu'l  the  whole  ul'  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon  at  my  head, 
and  one  of  'em  might  chance  to  hit  you.  Go,  aunty,  I 
want  to  fight  m\  own  battles  ;  and  if  I  don't  come  off 
with  drums  beating  and  colors  Hying,  it'll  be  a  caution  ' 
Hooray  I" 

And  Glpjv  v.aved  her  plumed  hat  above  her  head, 
•  nd  whirled  round  the  room  in  a  defiant  waltz. 

She  ua3  suddenly  i»iterriipted  by  the  entrance  of  the 
:quire,  Avho,  xhrusrlng  both  hands  into  his  coat  pockets, 
stood  tlaming  with  rage  before  her;  whereupon  Gipsy, 
plunging  her  iiands  into  the  pockets  of  her  riding-habil, 
planed  both  feet  firmly  on  the  ground,  and  confroiuej 
him  with  a  dignified  frown,  and  an  awfal  expiession  oi 
countenance  generally,  and  to  his  amazement,  burst  out 
with: 

"  You    unprincipled,    abandoned,  benighted,  befud 
died  old  gentleman  !  how  dare  you  have  the  impudence 


the  effrontery,  the  brazeiniess,  the  iniperLinencc,  the  — 
the — evoryihitiQ^-clse  !  to  show  your  face  to  me  ufte-  your 
oiitragccus,  your  uiiheiiicJ-of,  your  m  )nstrous,  your — 
yc3,  I  will  s.'iy  it — di.'ibolical  conduct  yesterday  '  Vcs, 
sir!  I  repeat  it,  yir — I'm  amazed  at  your  ellrontciv,  after 
scndiiiy;  a  poor,  unfoiuiiiale,  frieiulless,  degenerate  son 
ot  Africa  throiic^h  ihe  tremendous  ndn,  the  roariaj; 
liglitninf^,  the  fl:ishin<j^  thunder,  the  silent  winds,  in 
search  of  me,  t(^  s!ar)d  ih«Me,  looking  no  more  ashamed 
of  yourself  than  if  you  wcreu't  a  fair  blot  on  the  foul 
face  of  crc.'iticiU  !  Answer  me,  old  gentleman,  and  for- 
ever afterward  iioid  thy   peace  !" 

"You  abomiual>ie  little  wretch  !  You  incarnate  little 
fiend,  you!  You  impisli  little  imp,  you!  I'll  thrash 
you  within  an  inch  of  your  life  !"  roared  the  old  man. 
purple  with  rage. 

'*  Look  out,  Guardy,  you'll  completely  founder  the 
English  language,  if  you  don't  taKC  care,"  interrupted 
Gipsy. 

"You  impudent  little  vixen  !  I'll  make  you  repent 
yesterday's  conduct,"  thundered  the  squire,  catching 
her  by  the  shoulder  find  shaking  her  till  she  was  breath- 
les-s. 

"Loo — loo — look  here,  old  gentleman,  do — do — don't 
you  try  that  again  !"  stuttered  Gipsy,  panting  for  breath, 
and  wrenching  herself,  by  a  powerful  jerk,  free  from  hif 
grasp. 

"  Wiiy  didn't  you  ccme  home  when  I  sent  for  you  ' 
Answer  me  that,  or  I  won't  leave  a  sound  bone  in  youi 
body.     Now,  then  !" 

••  Well,  Guardy,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  because  I 
didn't  choose  to.     Now,  then  !" 

'*  You — you — you  incomparable  little  impudence,  I'!! 
fairly  ^nurder  you  !"  shouted  the  squire,  raising  his  hind 
In  his  rage  to  strike  her  a  blow,  which  wouid  af«urcd'jr 


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io6        Gil's y    OUTIVJTS    THM     SQUIRR. 

have  billed  her ;  but  Gipsy  adroitly  dodged,  and  his  haad 
fell  with  stunning  force  on  the  hall  table. 

With  something  bet^veen  a  howl  and  a  yell, he  started 
after  her  as  she  ran  screaming  with  laughter  ;  and  seiz- 
ing her  in  a  corner,  where  she  had  sunk  down  exhausted 
and  powerless  with  her  inward  convulsions,  he  shook 
iier  until  he  could  shake  her  no  longer. 

"  I'll  lock  you  up  !  ril  turn  you  out  of  doors  !  I'll 
thrash  you  while  I  am  able  to  stand  over  you !  No,  1 
won't  thrash  a  woman  in  my  own  house,  but  I'll  lock 
you  up  and  starve  you  to  death.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
don't !" 

"  You'll  be  hanged  if  you  do,  /ou  mean." 

"  Come  along  ;  we'll  see  what  effect  hunger  and  soli- 
tary confinement  will  have  on  your  high  spirits,  my  lady," 
said  the  squire,  seizing  her  by  the  arm  and  dragging  her 
ilong. 

"  Guardy,  if  you  do,  my  ghost  '11  haunt  you  every 
QJght,  just  as  sure  as  shooting,"  said  Gipsy,  solemnly. 

*  What  Jo  I  care  about  you  or  your  ghost !  Come 
along.  '  The  unrighteous  shall  not  live  out  half  their 
days,'  as  Solomon  says ;  therefore  it's  according  to 
Scripture,  and  no  fault  of  mine  if  you  don't  live  long." 

"  Solomon  v.as  never  locked  up  in  a  garret,"  said 
Gipsy,  thrusting  her  knuckles  in  her  eyes  and  beginning 
to  sob,  "and  he  don't  know  anything  about  it.  It's  real 
hatefnl  of  you  to  lock  me  up — now  !  But  it's  just  like 
fou,  you  always  were  an  ugly  old  vrctch  every  way.' 
^ob,  sob,  sob. 

"  That's  right,  talk  away  !  You  can  talk  and  scold  as 
much  as  you  like  to  the  four  bare  walls  presently,"  said 
the  squire,  dragging  her  al©ng. 

"  You're  a  hateful  old  monster  I  wish  you  were  far 
Ciiough — I  just  do  !  and  I  don't  care  if  I'm  taken  up  for 
defamation  of  character — so,  there  !    Boo,  hoc — a  hoo— * 


■fe: 


GIPSY    O 'J TWITS     THE    SQUIRE,      107 

a  hoo,     sobbed,  and  wept,  and   scolded   Gipsy,  as  the 
squire,  inwardly  chuckling,  led  her  to  her  place  of  cap- 

tivit) 

They  reached  it  at  length  ;  a  large  empty  room  with- 
out a  single  article  of  furniture,  even  without  a  chair.  It 
was  quite  dark,  too,  for  the  windows  were  both  nailed 
up,  and  the  room  was  situated  in  the  remotest  portion  of 
the  building,  wh'^re,  let  poor  Gipsy  cry  and  scream  as  she 
pleased,  she  could  not  be  heard. 

()u  entering  her  prison,  Gipsy  ceased  her  sobs  for  a 
moment  to  glance  around,  and  iier  blank  look  of  dismay 
at  the  aspect  of  her  prison,  threw  the  squire  into  a  fit  of 
Iauy;iiter. 

"  So,"  he  chuckled,  *'  you're  caught  at  last.  Now,  here 
you  may  stay  till  night,  and  I  hope  by  that  time  I'll  have 
taken  a  little  of  the  mischief  out  of  you." 

"And  I'll  have  nothing  to  pass  the  time,"  wept  Gipsy 
*'  Mayn't  I  go  down  stairs  and  get  »-  book  ?" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  i\o,  I  rather  think  you  mayn't. 
Perhaps  I  may  bring  you  up  one  by  and  by,"  said  the 
squire,  never  stopping  to  think  how  Gipsy  was  to  read 
in  the  dark. 

"Look  up  there  on  that  shelf,  I  can't  reach;  there's 
one,  I  think,"  said  Gipsy,  whose  keen  eye  had  caught 
sight  of  an  old  ncv/spapcr  lying  on  the  spot  indicated. 

The  squire  made  a  step  forward  to  reach  it,  and  like 
an  arrow  sped  from  a  bow,  at  the  same  instant^  Gipsy 
darted  acioss  the  room,  out  through  the  open  door.  Eic 
the  squire  could  turn  round,  he  heard  the  door  slam  to, 
and  he  was  caught  in  his  own  trap,  while  a  triumphant 
shout,  a  delighted  "  hurrah  !"  reached  h*s  ear  from  with- 
out. 

The  squire  rushed  frantically  to  the  door,  and  shook, 
and  pulled,  and  swore,  and  threatened  and  shouted,  to 
all  of  which  Gipsy  answered  by  tantalisiagly  aaking  bixa 


1;: 


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io8        GI/'SY    OUTWITS     THE    SQUIRE, 

whether  h^;'d  come  out  now,  or  wait  till  she  let  him, 
Then,  finding  threats  of  no  avail,  he  betook  himself  to 

rjoaxiiij^  ;  und  wheedled,  and  persuaded,  and  pi  ^mised, 
and  fl;  itercd,  but  equally  in  vain,  for  Gipsy  replied  that 
she  wouldn't  if  she  could,  couldn't  if  she  would,  for  thai 
she  had  ihruwii  the  key  as  far  as  she  could  pitch  it,  out 
of  the  vvindovv',  among  ttje  shrubs  in  the  p:arden — where, 
as  she  wasti't  in  vhe  habit  of  lookiniif  for  needles  in  hay- 
stacks, she  tho'irrht  it  quite  useless  searching  for  it ;  and 
ended  by  delivering  him  a  lecture  on  the  virtue  of  pa- 
tience and  the  beauty  of  Christiati  resignation  And  after 
exhorting  hiin  is)  improve  his  temper,  if  possible,  during 
his  conlifiemont.  as  she  was  going  over  to  spend  the  day 
at  Dr.  Spider's  and  teach  Miss  Hrtgar's  little  girl  to  ride, 
she  went  off  and  left  !;nn,  sian)piug,  and  swearing,  and 
foaming,  m  a  manner  qui.;'  awful  to  listen  to. 

True  to  her  word,  Oipsy  privately  sought  the  stables, 
saddled  Mignotu)e  iit,i-.:,eli,  ctud  rode  off,  without  being 
cbserveri,  to  sptnid  lix!;  day  at  \^^.Q\i  Dale.  The  absence 
of  tne  squire  wiis  no; iced  ;  but  it  was  supjx)sed  he  had 
ridden  off  on  f)u:.;!ne;is  after  locking  up  (ripsy,  and 
therefore  it  created  no  surprise.  As  he  had  positively 
forbiild-^n  any  one  in  i.he  house  to  go  near  iier  prison,  no 
oae  went ;  uud  it  vas  only  when  Gipsy  returned  home 
iat.«  M  nighi  tl?at  ?;ne  .learned,  to  her  surprise  and  alarm, 
li.«  had  net  yvx  Deen  lii)erated.  The  door  was  forced 
3ptr:i  by  Jupit.'r,  and  the  squire  was  found  lying  on  the 
floor,  having  raged  himself  into  a  state  that  quite  pre- 
vented him  from  ''murdeing"  Gipsy  as  he  had  threat- 
ened. Two  or  three  days  elapsed  before  "Richard  '  be- 
came *' himself  again  ;"  and  night  and  day  Gipsy  hovered 
over  his  bedside — the  quietest,  the  most  attentive  little 
nurse  that  ever  ^vas  seen,  quite  unalarmed  by  his  throw- 
ing the  pillow,  the  gruel  and  pill-boxes  at  her  iiead  every 
time  she  appeared  in  his  sight. 


CHAPTER  XIL 


I 


THE    TIGRESS   AND   THI   DOTB, 


;/ii 


Oh,  wanton  malice — deathful  sport- 
Could  ye  not  spare  my  all  ? 

But  mark  my  words,  on  thy  cold  heart 
A  fiery  doom  shall  fall." 


N  the  golden  glow  of  the  morning,  Minncttc 
Wiseman  stood  at  the  door,  gazing  out — not 
watching  rhe  radiant  beauties  of  nature — not 
listening  to  the  sweet  singing  of  the  birds — 
not  watching  the  waves  flashing  and  glitter 
ing  in  the  sunlight — but  nursing  her  own  dark,  fathom- 
less thoughts. 

From  the  f  ot  moment  of  tb^  coming  of  Celeste  she 
had  hated  hei,  with  a  deep,  intense  hatred,  that  was  des- 
tined to  be  the  one  ruling  passion  of  her  life.  She  was 
jealous  of  her  beauty,  angry  to  see  her  so  petted  and 
caressed  by  every  one,  but  too  proud  to  betray  it. 

Pride  and  jealousy  were  her  predominant  passions  ; 
you  could  see  them  in  the  haughty  poise  of  her  superb 
little  head,  in  the  dusky  fire  smoldering  in  her  glittering 
black  eyes,  in  the  scornful,  curling  upper  lip,  in  the 
erect  carriage  and  proud  step.  In  spite  of  her  beauty  r/^ 
one  seemed  to  like  Minnette,  and  she  liked  no  one. 

Among  her  scliool mates  her  superior  talents  won 
their  admiration,  but  her  eagle  ambition  to  surpass  theui 
all  soon  turned  admiration  into  dislike.  But  Minnert? 
went  haughtily  on  her  way,  living  in  the  unknown  world 
of  her  dark,  sullen  thoughts,  despising  both  them  and 
the  love  she  might  have  won. 

A  week   had   passed  since  the  coming   af  CeletiCt 


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*io       T/fS     TIGRESS    AND     THB    DOVE, 

Mis:;  FTagar,  fccliug  she  was  not  competent  to  undertake 
the  inytniction  ol  such  a  shy,  sensitive  little  creature, 
wished  to  send  her  to  school.  The  school  to  which 
Minnetteand  Gipsy  went  (sometimes)  was  two  miles  dis- 
tant, and  taught  by  the  Sisters  of  Charity.  Miss  Hagar 
would  have  sent  her  there,  but  there  was  no  one  she  could 
go  with.     She  mentioned  this  difficulty  to  her  brother. 

"Can't  she  go  with  Minnette?"  said  the  latter,  im- 
patiently. 

"No,  she  sha'n't,"  said  the  amiable  Minnette.  "  I'li 
have  no  such  whimpering  cry-baby  tagging  after  me. 
Let  Madam  Hagar  go  with  her  darling  herself  if  she 
likes." 

"  Just  what  I  expected  from  you,"  said  Miss  Hagar 
looking  gloomingly  in  the  sullen  face  before  her.  "  It 
the  Lord  doesn't  punish  you  one  day  for  your  hatred  and 
hard-heartedness,  it'll  be  because  some  of  his  creatures 
will  do  it  for  him.     Take  my  word  for  it." 

"  I  don't  care  for  you  or  your  threats,"  said  Minnette. 
angrily  ;  "and  I  do  hate  your  pet,  old  Miss  Hagar,  and 
I'll  make  everybody  else  hate  her  if  I  can,  too." 

"  Minnette,  hold  your  tongue,**  called  her  father,  angry 
At  being  interrupted  in  his  reading. 

Minnette  left  the  room,  first  casting  a  glance  full  ol 
dislike  and  contempt  on  Celeste,  who  sat  in  a  remote 
corner,  her  hands  over  her  face,  while  the  tears  «h« 
struggled  bravely  to  suppress  fell  in  bright  dr'>pft 
through  her  taper  fingers.  Sob  after  sob  swelled  die 
bosom  of  the  sensitive  child,  on  whose  gentle  heart  tiie 
cruH  words  of  Minnette  had  fallen  with  crushing  weighu 
Dr.  W'.MrSBac  ifter  a  few  moment?;,  too,  left  the  room, 
ijid  Celeste,  in  her  ^^rk  ctyrne-r,  wepi  unseen  and  uncared 
for. 

Suddenly  a  light  footstep  entering  the  room  startled 


THE     TIGRESS    AND     THE    DOVE,      iii 

her.     Her  hands  were  gently  removed   from  her  tcmr- 
stained  face,  while  a  spirited  voice  exclaimed  : 

"  Hallo  '  Sissy  !  what's  the  matter?     Has  that  kite 
li:3rt,  Minnette,  been  mocking  you  ?" 

"  No-o-o  !"  faltered  Celeste,  looking  up  through  her 
itrars  into  the  bright  face  of  Archie  Rivers. 

"  What's  the  case,  then  ?     Something's  wrong,  I  know 
Tell  me,  like  a  good  little  girl,   and  I'll  see  if  I   cam 
help  you,"  said  Archie,  resolutely  retaining  the  hands 
with  which  she  struggled  to  cover  her  face. 

•*  Miss  Hagar  wants  to  send  me  to  school,  and  I've  no 
one  to  go  with.  Minnette  doesn't  like  to  be  troubled 
with " 

"Oh,  I  see  it  all !  Minnette's  been  showing  her  ac- 
gclic  temper,  and  wo/i't  let  you  go  with  her,  eh  ?'* 

"Ye-e-es,"  sobbed  Celeste,  trying  bravely  not  to  cry. 

"  Well,  never  mind,  birdie  !  I  have  to  pass  the  Sisters' 
school  every  day  (yn  my  way  to  the  academy,  and  I'll 
take  care  of  you,  if  you'll  go  with  me.  Will  you  ?"  he 
said,  looking  dour/fully  into  her  little,  shrinking  face. 

"I--I  think  Ro,"  said  Celeste,  rather  hesitatingly.  "I 
will  be  a  trouble,  though,  I'm  afraid." 

"Not  you  !"  exclaimed  Archie,  gayly.  "1*11  be  youx 
true  knight  arid  champion  now,  and  by  and  by  you'll  be 
<ny  little  wife.     Won't  you  ?" 

"No-o-o  I  don't  like  to,"  said  Celeste,  timidly. 

Archie  seemed  to  think  this  answer  so  remarkably 
ujQny  chat  he  gave  way  to  a  perfect  shout  of  laughter. 
I  hen,  perceiv  ng  the  sensitive  little  creature  on  the 
»crge  of  crying  again,  he  stopped  siort  by  an  effort, 
ani  said,  apologetically : 

"There  !  don't  cry,  sis  ;  I  wasn't  laughing  at  you.  I 
say,  Miss  Hagar,"  he  added,  springing  abruptly  to  bis 
ittK  as  that  ancient  lady  entered,  "  mayn't  I  bring  Celeste 


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lit  school  ?  I'll  'lend  to  her  as  carefully  as  if  chc  v/.^s 
my  daui];hter.     Sec  if  T  don't." 

A  j^ririi  sort  of  smile  rehixed  the  rigid  mascles  oi 
Miss  Ua'^:ir's  iron  face  as  she  glanced  bengnly  at  hi:, 
merry,  thouL^htless  face  over  the  top  of  her  spectacles 

**  Vcs  she  may  12:0  with  you,  and  the  J^ord  will  blei^s 
<io\\  for  your  j^oo!,  kind  heart,"  she  said,  laying  her  hai?iiJ 
fondly  on  his  curly  head. 

Archie,  throwing  up  his  cap  in  the  exuberance  of  hii 
glee,  said  ; 

"  Run  and  got  ready,  sis,  and  come  along." 

**No:  vvpjt  until  to-morrow,"  said  Miss  Ilagar, 
"She  cannot  go  to-day." 

"All  right;  to-morrow,  then,  you've  to  make  your 
debut  in  ihe  school  of  St,  Mark's.  I  say,  Miss  Hagar, 
what  shall  we  call  her?  not  your  name — Dedley's  too 
dismal." 

"  No  ;  call  her  Pearl — she  is  a  pearl,"  said  Miss  Hagar, 
while  her  voice  became  ns  gentle  as  such  a  voice  could. 

"Very  well,  Celeste.  Pearl  then  be  it.  And  so. 
Celeste,  be  ready  bright  and  early  to-morrow  morning, 
atid  we'll  go  by  Sunset  Hall,  and  call  for  Gipsy  a.nd 
Louis.  By  the  way,  you  haven't  seen  Louis  yet,  have 
you?" 

"  No,"  said  Celeste. 

"  Oh,  then,  you  must  see  him,  decidedly,  to-morrow. 
E'jt  mind,  you  mustn't  go  and  like  him  better  than  yoxi 
do  me,  because  he's  better-looking.  I  tell  you  what, 
little  sis,  he's  a  capital  fellow,  and  so  clever  ;  he's  aheai 
of  every  fellow  i  1  the  academy,  and  beats  me  all  to 
smash.  Ijecaiise  I'm  not  clever  at  anything  except  riding 
and  shcotin.r,  a. id  Pm  his  equal  in  those  branches.  So 
now  Pm  off— good-bye  !" 

And  wi'h  a  spring  and  a  jump,  Archie  was  out  of  the 
t%soim.  and  dashing  along  the  road  at  a  tremendous  rate. 


li'.. 


THE    TIGRESS    AND     THE    DOVE.      it» 

The  next  morninc^  Celeste,  with  a  beating  heart,  set 
!>ut  with  Archie  UiX  school.  How  pretty  she  looked  in 
her  white  muslin  dress,  her  white  sunbonnct  covering 
ber  golden  curls- -a  perfect  little  pearl  I 

Archie,  having  paid  her  a  sliower  of  compliments. 
to;>k  her  by  the  hand  and  set  out  witl.  her  for  Sunset 
Uall  At  the  gate  Celeste  halted,  and  no  persuasions 
V.A6  Induce  her  to  enter. 

"  No,  no  ;  I'll  wait  here  until  you  come  back.  Please 
\t\  me,"  she  said,  pleadingly. 

'Oh,  well,  then,  I  won't  be  long,"  said  Archie,  rush- 
ing frantically  up  the  lawn  and  bursting  like  a  whirlwind 
into  the  hall  dcx^r. 

In  a  few  moments  he  reappeared,  accompanied  by 
Louis. 

"  Look,  old  fellow  !  there  she  is  at  the  gate.  Isn't 
she  a  beauty.^"  said  Archie. 

Louis  stopped  and  ga/ed,  transfixed  by  the  radiant 
vision  before  him.  In  her  tioaiing,  snowy  robes,  golden 
hair,  her  sweet,  angel-like  face,  on  which  the  morning 
sunshine  rested  like  a  glory,  she  was  indeed  lovely,  be- 
wildering, dazzling. 

"  How  beautiful  !  how  radiant  !  how  splendid ! 
Archie,  she  is  as  pretty  as  an  angel  !"  burst  forth  Loui% 
impetuously. 

"  Ha,  ha  ha !  a  decided  case  of  love  at  first  sight 
C-ome  along  and  I'll  introduce  you,"  exclaimed  Archie. 

Having  presented  the  admiring  Louis  to  Ceieste, 
who,  after  the  first  shy  glance,  never  raised  her  eyes,  ho 
Informed  her  that  Gipsy  had  gone  out  riding  early  in 
he  morning,  and  they  were  forced  to  go  without  her. 

"Celeste,  you  must  sit  to  me  for  your  portrait,"  ssid 
Lo:ii8,  impulsively,  as  they  walked  along. 

^  I  don't  know,"  said  Celeste,  shrinking  closer  t« 


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Archie,  wliom  she  had  learned   to  trust    in   like  an  old 
friend. 

"I'm  sketching  the  'Madonna  in  the  Temple'  foi 
Sister  Mary,  and  your  sweet,  holy,  calm  face  will  do  ex- 
RCtly  for  a  model,"  said  Louis. 

"  That's  a  compliment,  sis,"  said  Archie,  pinching 
her  check  ;  "  vou'd  better  sit.  Hallo !  if  that  isn't 
Gip'sy's  buL;lc  !  And  here  she  comes,  as  usual,  flying 
like  the  wind.  If  she  doesn't  break  her  neck  some  day, 
it  will  be  a  wonder." 

As  he  spoke,  the  clear,  sweet  notes  of  a  bugle  re- 
sounded musically  amons^  the  hills  above  them  ;  and 
the  next  moment  the  spirited  little  Arabian,  Mis^nonne, 
came  dashinc:  at  a  break -neck  pace  down  the  rocks,  with 
Gipsy  on  his  back,  a  fowling-piece  slung  over  her  shoul- 
der, and  sittinc:  her  horse  as  easilv  as  though  she  were 
in  an  easy-chair.  Witli  a  wild  "  tally-ho  !"  she  cleared  a 
yaw^ning  chasm  at  a  bound,  and  reined  her  horse  in  so 
suddenly  that  he  nearly  fell  back  on  his  haunches.  The 
next  instant  she  was  beside  them,  laughing  at  Celeste, 
who  clung,  pale  Vv'ith  fear,  to  Archie. 

"  What  lurk  this  morning,  Diana  ?**  exclaimed 
Archie. 

"  Pretty  well  for  two  hours.  Look  !"  said  Gipsy, 
displaying  a  well-filled  game-bag. 

"  Hid  you  kill  those  birds  ?"  inquired  Celeste,  lifting 
her  eyes  in  fear,  not  unmixed  with  horror,  to  the  spark- 
Hog  face  of  the  young  huntress. 

**  To  be  sure  !  There  !  don't  look  so  horror-struck 
I  declare  if  the  little  coward  doesn't  look  as  if  she 
thought  me  a  demon,"  said  Gipsy,  laughing  at  Celeste's 
sorrowful  face.  "  Look  !  do  you  see  that  bird  away  up 
there,  like  a  speck  in  tne  «ky  ?  Well,  now  watch  mi 
bring  it  down  ;"  and  Gipsy,  fixing  her  eagle  eje  on  ibt 
diitant  speck,  took  deliberate  aim. 


;l 


THE     TIGRESS    AND    THE    DOVE,      115 


\d 


*'Oh,  don't — don't!"  cried  Celeste,  in  an  agonj  of 
terror ;  but  ere  the  words  were  well  uttered,  they  were 
lost  in  the  sharp  crack  of  her  lit:le  rifle. 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  the  bird  began  rapidly  to 
fall,  and,  with  a  wild  shriek,  Celeste  threw  up  her  arms, 
and  fell  to  the  ground. 

*' Good  gracious !  if  I  haven't  scared  the  life  out  of 
Celeste  !"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  in  dismay,  as  Archie  raises 
her,  pale  and  trembling,  in  his  arms. 

"  What  a  timid  little  creature  !"  thought  Louis,  as  he 
watched  her,  clinging  convulsively  to  Archie. 

"  Oh,  the  bird  !  the  poor  bird  !"  said  Celeste,  burst- 

\:%        ^'^^  ^"^'^^  tears. 

Gipsy  laughed  outright,  and  pointing  to  a  tree  near 
at  hand,  said  : 

''  There,  Louis,  the  bird  has  lodged  in  that  tree  ;  go 
and  get  it  for  her." 

Louis  darted  off  to  search  the  tree,  and  Gipsy,  stoop- 
ing down,  said,  rather  impatiently  : 

"Now,  Celeste,  don't  be  such  a  little  goose!  What 
harm  is  it  to  shoot  a  bird  ? — everybody  does  it." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  right ;  it's  so  cruel.  Please  don't 
do  it  any  more,"  said  Celeste,  pleadingly. 

"  Can't  promise,  dear?  /  must  do  something  to  keep 
me  out  of  mischief.  But  here  comes  Louis.  Well,  is  it 
dead :" 

"No,"  said  Louis,  "but  badly  wounded.  However, 
I'll  take  care  of  it ;  and  if  it  recovers,  Celeste,  you  sh^'  I 
have  it  for  a  pet." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  you're i^ good,"  said  Celeste,  giving 
him  such  a  radiant  look  of  gratitude  that  it  quite  over- 
came the  gravity  of  Master  Rivers,  who  fell  back,  roar- 
ing with  laughter. 

Celeste  and  Gipsy  stood  a  little  apart,  conversing, 
tad  the  boys  sat  watching  them. 


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**T  say,  T.otiis,  what  do  you  think  of  her  Y*  said  Afrhie, 
pointing  to  Celeste. 

"I  think  slie  is  perfectly  bewitching — the  loveliest 
creature  I  ever  beheld, '  replied  Louis,  regarding  her  witii 
the  eye  of  an  artist.  "  She  reminds  me  of  a  lily— a  dove, 
80  fair,  and  v/iiiic:,  and  j^entle." 

*•  And  Gipsy,  what  does  she  remind  you  of  ?** 

"  Oh  !  of  a  yo!»ng  Amazon,  or  a  queen  eaglet  of  the 
mountains,  so  wild  and  untamed." 

"And  Minneuc,  what  is  she  like?" 

"  Like  a  tiffress,  more  than  anything  else  I  can  think 
of  just  now,"  said  Louis,  laughing;  *' beautiful,  but 
rather  dan-serous  wlien  aroused." 

"Aroused  !  I  don't  think  she  could  be  aroused,  she  ii 
made  of  marble." 

"  Not  she.  As  Miss  Hajjar  says,  the  day  will  come 
when  she  will,  she  must  feel  ;  every  one  does  sometime 
in  his  life.     What  does  Scott  say  : 


**  '  Hearts  arc  not  flint,  and  flints  are  rent  | 
Hearts  ar«  not  steel,  and  steel  is  bsat*" 


**  Well,  if  you  take  to  poetry,  you'll  keep  us  here  all 
day,**  said  Archie,  rising.  "  Good-bye,  Gipsy ;  come 
along  Celeste !" 


m 


True  to  promise,  Louis  adopted  the  wounded  bird ; 
lAd  under  his  skillful  hands  it  soon  recovered  and  was 
presented  to  Celeste.  She  would  have  set  it  free,  but 
Louis  said  :  •  No  ;  keep  it  for  my  sake,  Celeste."  And 
so  Celeste  kept  it ;  and  no  words  can  tell  how  she  grew 
to  love  that  bird.  It  hung  in  a  cage  in  her  chamber,  and 
her  greatest  pleasure  was  in  attending  it.  Minnette 
hated  the  very  sight  of  it.  That  it  belonged  to  Celeste 
would  have  JMcn  enough  to  make  her  hate  it ;  Init  added 


■'  i 


THE    TIGRESS    AND    THE    DOVE.      117 

to  that,  it  had  been  given  her  by  Louis  Oranmorc.  the 
oily  living  bciiiu^  Minnettt.  had  ever  tried  to  please  ;  uud 
jealousy  adfled  tenfold  to  her  hatred. 

Seeing  the  bird  h;inc:inp:,  one  day,  out  in  the  sunshine, 
she  opened  I  he  ca.';:e-door,  and,  with  the  most  fiendish 
aud  deliberate  malice,  twisted  its  neck,  and  then,  going 
to  Celcbte,  pointed  i<j  it  with  malignant  triumph  spark- 
ling in  her  l)old,  black  eyes. 

Poor  Celeste  !  She  look  the  dead  and  mangled  body 
of  her  pretty  favorite  in  her  lap,  and  sitting  down,  wept 
the  biilerest  tears  lie  had  ever  shed  in  her  life.  Let  no 
one  smile  at  her  childish  grief  ;  who  has  been  withouc 
them  ?  I  remember  distinctly  the  saddest  tears  that  ever 
I  shed  were  over  the  remains  of  a  beloved  kitten,  stoned 
to  death.  And  through  all  tiie  troubles  of  after  years, 
that  first  deep  grief  never  was  forgotten. 

While  she  was  .siill  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break,  a  pair  of  strong  arms  were  thrown  around  her, 
ftud  the  eager,  handsome  face  of  Louis  was  bending  over 
her. 

*' Why,  Celeste,  what  in  the  world  are  all  those  tears 
for?"  he  inquired,  pushing  the  disheveled  golden  hair 
off  her  wet  cheek. 

"  Oh,  Louis,  my  bird  !  my  poor  bird  !"  she  cried,  hid 
Ing  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  in  a  fresh  burst  of  grief. 

^'  What  !  it's  dead,  is  it  ?"  said  Louis,  taking  it  up^ 
"  Did  the  cat  get  at  it .''" 

"  No,  no  ;  it  wasn't  the  cat ;  it  was — it  was " 

^^WhoV  said  Louis,  while  his  dark  eyes  flashed. 
"Did  any  one  dare  to  kill  ii  ?  Did  Minnctte,  that  young 
tigress " 

"  Oh,  Louis  I  don't,  don*t !  You  mustn't  call  her  such 
dreadful  names  !"  said  Celeste,  placing  her  band  over  his 
Aouth  '^  I  don't  think  she  meant  it ;  don't  be  angry 
with  her,  please  ;  it's  so  dreadful !" 


fl 


^'i 


•I  I 


{''if 


I..     1..UI...-U-1LU 


1, 

;   ■ 

i 

:'  'i^n 

^M 

V- 

'  ''H 

5: 

"'  ^m'. 

m 

&m 

1x8       THE     TIGRESS    AND     THE    DOVE. 


I  I 


^  ] 


1     *' 

!■] 

1" 

«• 

r 

'•  You  little  angel '"  he  said,  smoothing  gently  herfuii 
hair;  "no,  lor  your  sake  I'll  not.  Never  mind,  donf 
cry ;  I'll  get  you  another,  twice  as  pretty  as  that  !" 

•*  No,  Louis  ;  I  don't  want  any  more  !  I'd  rathe? 
have  the  dear  birds  free  !  And  now,  will  you — will  you 
bury  poor  birdie?"  said  Celeste,  almost  choking  in  hci 
fjffort  to  be  '*  good  and  not  cry." 

**  Yes  ;  here's  a  nice  spot,  under  the  rose-bush,"  said 
Louis  ;  "and  I'll  get  a  tombstone  and  write  a  nice  epitaph. 
And  you  must  console  yourself  with  the  belief  that  it's 
happy  in  the  bird's  heaven,  if  there  is  such  a  place," 
added  Louis,  as  he  placed  poor  "  Birdie  "  in  its  last  rest- 
ing-place. 

Half  an  hour  after.  Celeste  sought  the  presence  of 
Minnette.  She  found  her  sitting  by  the  window,  her 
chin  resting  on  her  hand,  as  was  her  habit,  gazing  out. 
She  did  not  turn  round  as  Celeste  entered ;  but  the 
latter  went  up  softly,  and,  placing  her  hand  on  hers,  said 
gently  : 

"  Minnette,  I'm  afraid  you're  angry  with  me  ?  I'm 
very  sorry  ;  please  forgive  me  ?" 

Minnette  shook  her  roughly  off,  exclaiming: 

"  Don't  bother  me,  you  little  whining  thing  !  Go  out 
of  this  !" 

"  Yes  ;  but  only  say  you  forgive  me,  first !  Indeed, 
indeed,  Minnette,  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you.  I  want 
to  love  you,  if  you'll  let  me  !" 

"  Love  !"  exclaimed  Minnette,  springing  fiercely  to  her 
feet,  her  black  eyes  gleaming  like  fire.  "  You  artful 
jittle  hypocrite  !  You  consummate  little  cheat  ?  Don't 
talk  to  me  of  love  !  Didn't  I  see  you  in  the  garden,  with 
your  arms  around  Louis  Oranmore,  in  a  way  for  which 
you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself — complaining  to 
him  of  my  wickedness  and  cruelty  in  killing  the  bird 
he  gave  you.      And  yet,  after  turning  him  against  m& 


GIPSY    ASTONISHES     THE    NATIVES,  119 


^er  full 
donf 

rathftr 
ill  you 
[in  hci 

said 
>itaph. 

fiat  it's 
ilace," 

St  rest- 

ncc  of 
)w,  her 

g  out. 
ut  the 
rs,  said 

I?    I'm 


Go  out 

ndecd. 
I  want 

'to  her 

artful 
Don't 
\  with 
which 
in^  to 
?  bird 
St  o3e> 


jrou  come  here,  and  tell  me  you  love  me !  Begone, 
you  miserable  little  beggar!  I  hate  the  very  sight  «)l 
you  ! 

Her  face  was  convulsed  with  passion.  With  a  cry 
of  terror,  Celeste  fled  from  tiie  room  to  weep  alone  '\\\ 
her  own  cliamber,  while  Minneuc  sat  by  the  window, 
v;atcning  the  stars  come  out  in  their  splendor,  one  b) 
one,  with  the  germs  of  that  jealousy  taking  deep  root 
in  her  soul^  that  would  grow  and  bear  fruit  for  ever- 
more ! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

GIPSY    ASTONISHES   THE   NATIVIS. 

'  What  mighty  mischief  glads  her  now  ?" — Firs  Wokshipbm. 

MONG  the  villagers  of  St.  Mj»rk's,  the  mad- 
headed,  wild-eyed,  fearless  Gipsy  Gower  was 
a  universal  favorite.  Not  one  among  them 
but  had  received  from  her  warm  heart  and 
generous  hand  some  service.  The  squire 
furnished  his  "  imp"  plentifully  with  pocket-money, 
Tphich  was  invariably  bestawed  with  careless  generosity 
upon  the  poor  of  the  parish  ;  but  given  in  a  way  that 
orecluded  all  thanks.  Sometimes  the  door  would  be 
thrust  open  with  such  violence  as  :o  wake  the  inmates, 
thinking  a  troop  of  horse  was  about  to  fa  for  them  with 
a  visit,  and  her  purse  flung  into  the  middle  of  the  floor  ; 
and  away  she  would  ride  like  a  flash.  But  on  these  occa- 
sions they  were  never  at  a  loss  to  know  the  donor.  If, 
on  her  next  visit,  they  began  to  thank  her  f  tr  her  ^-Ift. 


II! 


'■i! 


Kt '« 


mi 


ISO  GIPSY    ASTONISHES    THE    NATIVES. 


,;'  * 


^m 


ii   .V 


Gipsy  indignantly  denied  all  knowledge  of  it,  and  posi 
[ively  refused  to  listen  to  them. 

Dr.  Wiseman,  who  was  a  pretty  extensive  land-ownetr 
had  sevenil  tenants  in  the  remotest  part  of  the  village, 
whom  he  forced  to  pay  an  exorbitant  rent,  giving  them 
io  understand  that  iinltss  they  paid  it  on  tiie  very  day  il 
ciimc  due,  out  they  muit  go  !  One  evening,  about  dusk, 
Gipsy,  who  had  been  ridini^  out,  was  overtaken  by  a 
storm  of  wind  and  rain,  and  sought  shelter  in  one  of  the 


cottages. 


On  entering  she  found  the  whole  family  in  deep  iis- 
tress.  The  head  of  the  family  sat  gazing  moodily  at  the 
fire  :  his  wife,  surrounded  by  her  children,  was  weeping  ; 
and  they,  following  her  example  had  setup  a  clamorous 
cry. 

"Why,  what's  up  now?  What's  the  matter,  Mrs. 
Brown  ?"  inquired  Gipsy,  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  Miss  Gipsy  !  is  it  you?  Sit  down.  Alas,  it's 
the  last  time  we  can  ever  ask  you  !"  said  the  woman, 
with  a  fresh  burst  of  tears. 

"  Why,  are  you  going  to  turn  me  out  the  next  time  I 
oome?"  said  Gipsy,  taking  the  proffered  seat. 

"  Heaven  forbid  we'd  ever  turn  you  out.  Miss  Gipsy, 
after  all  you've  done  for  us  !"  said  the  woman  ;  "  b^ 
after  to  night  we'll  no  longer  have  a  roof  to  shelter  us 

"  You  won't,  eh  ?  Do  you  intend  to  set  fire  to  this  ox 
shanty,  and  burn  it  down  ?"  inquired  Gipsy. 

*'  No,  no  ;  but  Dr.  Wiseman  was  here  for  his  rent 
(this  is  pay-day,  ycu  kuDw),  and  we  haven't  a  cent  in  the 
house  to  give  him.  Mr.  Brown's  been  sick  mostly  all 
summer,  and  all  we  could  make  it  took  to  feed  the  nhil- 
drcn.  And  now  Dr.  Wiseman  says  he'll  turn  us  out,  to 
stance  or  beg,  to-morrow,"  replied  the  woman  throuo"^ 
her  tears. 

**  The  old  sinner !"   exclaimed  Gipsy,  through  hei 


GIPSY    ASTOKJSHES     the    natives.  121 


u  \. 


hard-closed  t^eth.  "  Did  you  ask  him  to  give  you  cime 
to  pay  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  went  on  my  knees,  and  begged  him  to  spare 
us  for  a  few  months,  and  we  would  pay  him  every  cent  , 
but  he  ^vouldn't.  He  said  he  would  give  us  until  to- 
Diorrov  morning,  and  if  we  didn't  have  it  then,  out  we 
must  go." 

For  a  rajment  Gipsy  was  silent,  compressing  her  lipa 
to  keep  down  her  fiery  wrath,  while  the  woman  wept 
roore  passionately  than  ever. 

"  Have  his  other  tenants  paid  him  ?"  inquired  Gipsy, 
at  length. 

*' Yes,  all  but  us." 

"  When  did  he  start  for  home  ?** 

"  Not  five  minutes  ago  ?" 

"Which  way  did  he  take  ?"  said  Gipsy,  springing^  to 
her  feet,  and  beginning  to  examine  her  pistols. 

"  He  went  over  the  hills,"  said  the  man  at  the  fire, 
speaking  now  lor  the  first  time ;  "  I  heard  them  say  he 
was  afraid  to  be  robbed  if  he  went  round  by  the  road,  as 
he  had  all  the  money  he  got  from  the  tenants  with 
mm. 

"All  right,  then,  Mrs.  Browm,  my  dear  woman.  Keep 
up  heart  ;  and  if  some  good  fai*-;'  gets  you  out  of  this 
scrape,  don't  say  a  word  about  it.     Good  night." 

"  You  had  better  not  venture  alone  in  the  stornv"  said 
Mrs.  Brown,  anxiously  ;  "  one  of  the  boys  wiil  go  with 
/ou.' 

*  Thank  you,  there's  no  necesstiy.  I  feel  safer  on 
Mignonne's  back  than  with  all  the  boys  that  ever  aflSicted 
the  Avorld  for  its  sins  for  a  body-guard.  So  mind  my 
words,  '  hold  on  to  the  last,'  as  the  shoemaker  said,  and 
don't  despair." 

The  last  words  were  lost  in  the  storm  of  wind  and  rain, 
M  the  opened  the  door.     Soriix^ing  on  th«  back  of  Mif  • 


I  i 


!  i 


■i! 


;t: 


t 

■:    "''%M 


'    1 

f'"'" 

'^        :  '.''if' 

;. 

1           ''i 

'  ^'-i 

1  / 

V          -  ' 

; 

1    -^3 

;  '^ 

1     <  ^ 

f        ■'  M 

i 

M 

I'M 

ff 


I 


^ 


'^l  vr 


E<  i' 


i¥ 


I  \ 


132  GIPSY    ASTONISHES    THE    NATITES, 

nonne,  she  turned  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  hi  .Is. 
and  sped  over  the  ground  as  rapidly  as  her  fleet-footed 
Arabian  could  carry  her. 

Through  the  night,  and  wind,  and  rain,  over  the  dan- 
gerous hilly  path  jogged  Dr.  Wiseman.  He  scarcely 
felt  the  storm,  for  a  talisman  ir.  the  shape  of  a  well-fiDcd 
pocket-book  lay  pressed  to  his  avaricious  heart.  His 
mare,  a  raw-boned  old  brute,  as  ugly  as  her  master, 
walked  along  slowly,  manifesting  a  sublime  contempt 
for  storm  and  wind  that  would  have  done  the  heart  of  a 
philosopher  good.  What  her  thoughts  were  about  it, 
would  be  hard  to  say  ;  but  her  master's  ran  on  money, 
robbers,  highwaymen,  and  other  such  "  knights  of  the 
road." 

"  There  are  many  desperate  characters  in  the  village 
who  know  I  have  a  large  sum  of  money  about  me,  and 
who  would  no  more  mind  waylaying,  robbing,  and  per- 
haps murdering  me,  than  I  would  of  turning  the  Brown's 
out  to-morrow.  Luckily,  however,  they'll  think  I've 
taken  the  village  road,"  said  the  doctor  to  himself,  in  a 
sort  of  soliloquy,  "  and  so  I'll  escape  them.  But  this 
road  is  a  dismal  one,  and  seems  just  the  place  for  a  ren- 
dezvous of  robbers.  Ndw,  if  a  highwayman  were  to 
step  up  from  behind  one  of  these  rocks,  and  cry -*' 

"  Your  money  or  yo  ir  life  !"  cried  a  deep,  sepulchra» 
voice  at  his  ear,  with  such  startling  suddenness  that, 
with  an  exclamation  of  horr(  '  and  fear,  the  doctor  near- 
ly fell  from  his  seat. 

Recovering  himself,  he  strove  to  sec  the  robber,  but 
in  the  deep  darkness  and  beating  rain  it  was  impos- 
sible. But  though  he  couldn't  see,  he  could  hear,  and 
the  sharp  :;lick  of  a  pistol  distinctly  met  his  ear. 

"  Your  money  or  your  life  '"  repeated  the  low,  hoarse 
Toice,  in  an  imperious  tone. 

For  reply « the  doctor,  rendered  deepente  by  the  fta? 


h;.ls. 
^footed 

.e  dan- 
parcel}' 
l-fiDcd 
His 
Imaster, 
ntempt 
(rt  of  a 
)out  it, 
money, 
of  tlie 

village 
ne,  and 
nd  per- 
Brovvn's 
nk  I've 
jlf,  in  a 
But  this 
r  a  ren- 
were  to 

)ulchra» 
ss  thatf 
ar  ncar- 

ber,  but 

impos- 

:ar,  and 

,  hoarse 

be  fta; 


■5 


GIPSY    ASTONISHES    THE    NAlsTBS.xtl 

of  losing  his  money,  drew  a  pistol  and  fired.  As  it 
flashed,  he  saw  for  a  tnoment  a  horse  standing  before 
him,  but  the  rider  seemed  to  have  Iain  flat  down,  for  no 
man  was  there.  Ere  he  could  draw  his  second  pistol, 
bis  Lorse  was  grasped  b3r  the  bridle-rein,  and  the  ccld 
i:ijrzle  of  a  pistol  was  pressed  to  his  temple, 

"Your  money  or  your  life!"  cried  a  fierce,  excited 
t^oi(e  that  terror  alone  prevented  him  from  recognizing. 
'Deliver  up  your  money,  old  man,  or  this  instant  you 
ahali  die." 

*'  Oh,  spare  my  life  !"  cried  the  wretched  doctor,  in 
an  agony  of  terror,  for  the  cold  ring  of  steel  still  pressed 
his  temple  like  the  deadly  fang  of  a  serpent.  "  Spare 
my  life,  for  God's  sake,  and  you  shall  have  all  !  Tm  a 
poor  man,  but  you  shall  have  it." 

"  Quick,  then,"  vas  the  imperious  rejoinder,  as  the 
doctor  fumbled  in  his  pockets,  and  at  last,  with  a  deep 
groan  of  despair,  surrendered  the  plump  pocket-book  tc 
the  daring  outlaw. 

•'  That  is  all  I  have ;  now  let  me  go,"  cried  the  mis- 
erable doctor. 

"  Yes  ;  but  first  you  must  solemnly  swear  never  to 
speak  to  man,  woman,  or  child  of  what  has  occurred  to- 
night.    Swear  by  your  own  miserable  soul  !" 

"  I  swear  !"  groaned  the  unhappy  doctor. 

"And  lest  you  should  be  tempted  to  commit  perjury, 
9*'id  break  your  oath,  let  me  tell  you  that  the  very  first 
attem.pt  to  do  so  will  be  followed  by  instant  death.  Mind  I 
I  will  watch  you  day  and  night,  dog  your  steps  like  a 
blood  hound,  and  if  yow  dare  to  breathe  .t  to  living  mor- 
tal, that  m(jrner:t  .viil  be  your  last." 

*'  I'll  never  mention  it  !  I'll  never  speak  of  it.  Oh, 
let  rac  go,"  implored  the  agonized  Galen. 

"  Vsrv   well.  then.     1    have   the  honor  to  wish  fov 


:'  I  :i 


'I' 


'I 


i     I 
I    '' 


!i 


» 


iM 


.1- 


i  M 


H 


124  GIPSY    ASTONISHES    THE    NATIVES. 


*      h 


t 


■:.'  f 


I  *'i 


:'.(. 


efood- night.     If  you  Jon't  ride  straight  home,  I'll  send  a 
bullet  through  your  head." 

And  with  this  cheering  assurance  the  robber  put  ti,«rs 
to  the  horse,  and  rode  off  in  the  direction  opposite  to  thai 
leading  tc  Deep  Dale. 

Little  need  was  there  to  exhort  the  terroi -stricken 
do'tor  to  ride  straight  home.  Never  before  had  tiie 
spavined  (^Id  mare  fled  over  the  ground  wi*.n  the  velocity 
she  did  that  night,  and  Doctor  Wiseman  did  not  breathe 
freely  until  he  was  double-locked  in  his  own  room. 

The  Browns  paid  their  rent  l.ie  next  day,  and  would 
no  longer  remain  tenants  of  the  doctor.  If  he  suspected 
any  one,  the  robber's  threat  caused  him  prudently  to 
remain  silent ;  but  his  wretched  look  was  an  unfailing 
subject  of  mirth  for  Gipsy  Gower  for  a  month  after, 
and  the  cunning  twinkle  of  her  eye  said  as  plainly  as 
words  : 

"  I  know,  but  I  won't  tell." 

One  day,  Gipsy  fell  into  deeper  disgrace  with  the 
squire  than  had  ever  occurred  before.  In  fact,  it  was 
quite  an  outrageous  thing,  and  the  only  apology  I  can 
offer  for  her  is,  that  she  meant  no  harm. 

The  Bishop  of  B.,  Senator  Long,  and  a  number  of 
Jistinguished  gentleme^i  and  ladies  from  the  city  had 
come  to  St.  Mark's  to  ipend  a  few  days.  Squire  Erlis- 
ton,  as  a  matter  of  course,  immediately  called  to  see  his 
friends,  and  i.  few  days  after  gave  a  large  dinner-party 
to  which  they  were  all  -nvited. 

The  important  day  lor  the  dinner-party  arrived.    Lii 
zie  was  up  in  her  room,  dressing.     Mrs.  Gower  was  su 
perintending  affairs  in  the  dining-room.     The  squire,  io 
full  dress,  sat  alone,  awaiting  his  friends.     As  he  sat, 
sleep  overpowered  him,  and  unconsciously  he  sank  into 
A  profound  slumber. 
While  he  was  «noring  in  peace,  little  drMtminc  of  tb« 


u 


■■3 


I 


■■- 


GIfSY   ASTONISaSS    TBB    NATIVBS.  n$ 


5!  \ 


J.  -rs 

thai 

icken 

the 
focity 
[eat  he 


fate  awaitins^  him,  that  little  imp  of  misrlilef,  Gipsy,  en- 
tered. One  glance  suliiccd,  and  across  her  fertile  brain 
there  shot  a  demoniacal  project  of  mischief,  while  hct 
whole  form  became  instinct,  and  her  wicked  eyes  scin- 
tillated with  fun. 

Quiuing  the  room,  sh;  returned  presently  with  a  box 
fff  lampblack  in  one  hand,  and  the  mustard-pot  in  the 
other. 

"  Now,  Guardy,  you  keep  still  a  little  while  till  I 
turn  you  into  an  Indian  chief,  and  here  goes  for  your 
war-paint." 

So  saying,  the  little  wretch  drew  a  streak  of  mustard 
across  his  nose,  following  it  by  a  similar  one  of  lamp- 
black. And  so  she  continued  until  his  whole  face  was 
covered  with  alternate  stripes  of  yellow  and  biack, 
scarcely  able  to  repress  a  shout  of  laughter  as  she 
worked,  at  the  unspeakably  ludicrous  appearance  he  pre- 
sented. 

Having  exhausted  her  supply  of  paint,  Gipsy  stepped 
to  the  door  to  survey  her  work,  and  unable  longer  to  re- 
strain a  roar  of  laugiiter,  fled  to  her  room,  quivering  with 
the  anticipation  of  the  fun  to  come. 

Scarcely  had  she  quitted  the  room  when  the  door 
was  flung  open,  and,  in  pompous  tones,  the  servant 
announced  : 

"  De  Right  Reveren'  Bishop  of  B.,  de  Hon'ble  Senator 
Long  and  Mrs.  Long.** 

And  the  whole  party,  half  a  dozen  in  number,  enterrd 
Cue  apartment. 

The  noise  awoke  the  squire;  and  a  most  musicai 
snore  was  mer-^ilessly  interrupted,  and  ended  in  a 
hysterical  snort.  Starting  to  his  feet  with  an  expression 
of  countenance  that  litterly  repud'ated  the  idea  of  hif 
having  been  asleep,  he  advanced  with  extended  hand 
toward  the  bishop.    Thai  high  functionary  drew  back 


I    I 


I  t 


w 


1   ! 


1"   '1 

f  ■  ^  % 


WM 
"  11 


it6  GTPSY    ASTOmSHES    THE    NATIVES. 


;  I 


!',       I 


<» 


for  a  iTJoment  aghast,  and  glancec  at  his  companions  ir 
horror.  Human  nature  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  a 
universal  sliout  of  la.ighter  resounded  through  the  room. 

*'  Ell  ?  What  ?  Lord  bless  me,  what's  the  matter  ? ' 
s-^id  the  squire,  turning  his  face  from  one  to  another,  in- 
«  a»  dly  wondering  if  they  had  all  gone  mad.  "  What  are 
fou  laughing  at  T 

A  fresh  roar  of  laughter  from  the  whole  party  an 
ijwered  this,  as  they  all  pressed  their  hands  to  their  sides 
utterly  unable  to  stop.  Seeing  this,  the  squire  at  lasJ 
began  grinning  with  sympathy,  thereby  adding  so  much 
to  the  ludicrousness  of  bis  appearance,  that  some  threw 
themselves  on  the  floor,  some  on  chairs  and  sofas,  in  per 
feet  convulsions. 

"  What  the  deure  is  it?"  repeated  the  squire,  at  last 
losing  patience  "  Will  you  oblige  me  by  telling  me 
what  the  matter  is'" 

"  My  dear  sir,"  began  the  bishop,  in  tremulous  tones. 

The  squire  turned  his  painted  face  eagerly  toward  the 
speaker.  In  vain  he  attempted  to  proceed,  it  was  not  in 
human  nature  to  withstand  that  face,  and  the  bishop  fell 
back  in  a  paroxysm  that  threatened  never  to  end. 

It  vvp.s  a  scene  for  an  artist.  The  row  of  convulsea 
faces  around,  pausing  for  a  moment  breathlessly,  but 
breaking  forth  louder  than  ever  the  minute  their  eyes  again 
fell  upon  him.  And  there  sat  the  squire  with  his  blarrk 
and  yellow  face,  turning  in  dismay  from  one  to  another, 
bis  round  bullet-eyes  ready  to  pop  from  their  sockets. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Lizzie,  Louis, 
and  Mrs.  Gower,  followed  by  all  the  servants  in  tlie 
house,  attracted  by  the  noise,  burst  into  the  room.  The 
moment  their  eyes  fell  on  the  squire,  who  had  started  to 
his  fret  to  address  them,  their  looks  of  surprise  vanished, 
and,  as  if  by  one  accord,  shout  after  shout  of  laughtci 
broke  from  all.    In  vain  did  the  squire  stamp,  and  fimia 


\\ 


GIPSY    ASTONTSHSS    THM   NATIVES,  lay 


and  demand  to  know  what  was  the  matter ;  his  only 
answer  was  a  fresh  explosion  of  mirth. 

At  last,  in  despair,  Mrs.  Gower  managed  to  point  to 
a  mirror  opposite.  The  squire  rushed  frantically  to  the 
spot,  and  then  paused,  transfixed,  aghast  with  horror, 
Turning  slowly  round,  he  confronted  his  guests  vvitk 
such  a  look  of  blank,  utter  dismay,  that  all  the  lauf^lilc 
previous  was  nothing  to  the  universal  roar  which  fcji 
lowed  that  despairing  glance.  Then  bursting  out  with  : 
"  It's  that  fiend  ! — that  demon  incarnate  ! — that  little 
Jezebel  has  done  this,"  he  rushed  from  the  room  in 
search  of  her. 

Gipsy,  attracted  by  the  laughter,  had  ventured  cau- 
tiously to  descend  the  stairs.  The  squire  perceived  her, 
as  like  a  flash  she  turned  to  fly.  With  one  galvanic 
bound  he  sprang  up  the  stairs,  seized  her  by  the  shoulder, 
shouting  : 

"  By  Heaven  !     I'll  pay  you  for  this  when  they  go  !" 

Then  opening  an  adjoining  door,  he  thrust  her  in, 
turned  the  key,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  rushed  out  of 
the  house  into  the  yard,  where,  by  the  friendly  aid  of 
soap  and  hot  water,  and  some  hard  scrubbing,  he  managed 
to  make  himself  once  more  look  like  a  Christian. 

Then,  returning  to  his  guests — who  by  this  time  had 
themselves  into  such  a  state  that  they  could 
laugh  no  longer — he  dispersed  the  servants  with  sundry 
kicks  and  cufis,  and  proceeded  to  explain,  as  well  as  he 
was  able,  how  it  came  about.  Politeness  forced  th'! 
party  to  make  every  effort  to  maintain  their  gravity,  buj 
more  than  once,  while  seated  in  solemn  conclave  round 
the  dinner-table,  the  recollection  of  the  old  man's  ludi- 
crous appeai*ance  would  pro/e  too  much  for  flesh  and 
blood — and,  leaning  back,  they  would  laugh  until  the 
tears  stood  in  their  eyes.  Their  example  proving  con- 
tagious, the  Mhole  party  would  join  in,  to  the  great  mor 


laughed 


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tification  of  the  squire — who  inwardly  vowed  that  Gipsy 
should  pay  dearly  for  every  additional  laugh. 

But  for  the  squire  to  reckon  without  Gipsy  was  rather 
a  hazardous  experiment.  Seldom  did  that  young  lady 
iind  herself  in  a  position  from  which  h«r  genius  would 
ii,)t  extricate  her — as  the  squire  found  to  his  cost  in  the 
present  instance. 

Gipsy's  first  sensation  at  finding  herself  for  the  first 
time  really  a  prisoner  was  one  of  intense  mortification, 
followed  by  indignation  ;  and  her  thoughts  ran  some- 
what after  the  following  fashion  : 

"The  mean  old  tiling  ! — to  lock  me  up  here  just  be- 
cause I  applied  a  little  mustard  outside  instead  of  in- 
side!  Never  mind;  if  I  don't  fix  him  for  it,  it'll  be  a 
wonder.  So  you'll  pay  me  for  this,  will  you,  Guardy  ? 
Ah  !  but  you  ain't  sure  of  me  yet,  you  see.  If  I  don't 
outwit  you  yet,  my  name's  not  Gipsy  Roarer  Gower  ! 
Now,  Gipsy,  my  dear,  set  your  wits  to  work,  and  get 
yourself  out  of  this  black  hole  of  a  prison." 

Going  to  the  window,  she  looked  out.  The  sight 
would  have  appalled  a'^y  one  else  ;  but  it  did  not  intim- 
idate Gipsy.  The  room  she  was  in  was  on  the  third 
story,  at  a  dizzy  height  from  the  ground.  She  looked 
•round  for  a  rope  to  descend  ;  but  none  did  the  room 
contain.  What  was  she  to  do  "*  Gipsy  raised  herself  on 
UE-^  toe  to  consider. 

Suddenly  her  eye  fell  on  a  new  suit  of  broadcloth 
\zc  guardian  had  brought  home  only  the  c'ay  before. 
Bhe  did  not  hcsitata  an  instant. 

To  her  great  delight  she  found  a  pair  of  scissors  in 
her  pocket ;  and,  taking  the  coat  and  unmentionables 
from  the  wall  where  they  hung,  she  sat  down  and  dili- 
gently fell  to  work  cutting  them  into  long  strips.  Fif- 
teen minutes  passed,  and  nothing  remained  of  Guardy'8 


^. 


\S: 


3l 


yQIPSY    ASTOmSHES    THE   NATIVES,  ^9^ 


'\  \ 


new  clothes  but  a  lon^  black  knotted  string*— which,  to 
her  great  delight,  she  found  would  reach  eaLily  to  the 
ground. 

Fastening  it  to  the  window-sill  securely,  she  began 
to  descend,  and  in  ten  minutes  she  stood  once  more  on 
terra  fir  ma. 

Going  to  the  stables,  she  saddled  Mignonne  and  led 
him  to  tlie  front  gate,  where  she  left  him  standing.  Then, 
with  unheard-of  audacity,  she  entered  the  hall,  opened 
the  dining-room  door,  and  thrusting  iu  her  wicked  little 
head,  she  exclaimed  exultingly  : 

"  I  say,  Guardy,  you  can  *  pay '  me  any  time  at  your 
leisure,  and  I'll  give  you  a  receipt  in  full." 

Then,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  making  a  hideous  grimace, 
she  turned  to  tiy  ;  but  the  squire  jumped  from  his  seat — 
overturning  the  bishop  and  Mr:;.  S*»riafor  Long  in  his 
▼iolent  haste — and  shouting,  "  Stop  her  1  stop  her  '/' 
rushed  after  her  from  the  room. 

But  he  was  too  late,  and  she  leaped  upon  Mignonne's 
back  and  was  off.     Waving  her  hat  in  the  air  in  a  defiant 
'hurra  !"  she  dashed  down  the  road  and  disappeared. 

Amazement  and  rage  were  struggling  in  the  breast 
of  the  squire.  Doubting  whether  it  was  all  a  delnsion, 
he  rushed  up  stairs  to  the  room.  The  door  was  still  fast ; 
and,  burning  with  impatience,  he  opened  it.  And  there 
he  found  the  window  wide  open,  and  his  new  suit  con- 
verted into  a  rope,  which  still  dangled,  as  if  in  exulta- 
tion from  the  window.     And  the  mystery  was  solved. 

What  the  squire  said  and  did  there,  it  is  useless  to 
say.  The  reader  knows  his  remarks  were  anything  but 
edifying ;  and  even  the  august  presence  o*  the  over 
turned  bishop  could  not  prevent  him  from  hurling  a 
torrent  of  invectives  against  the  unfortunate  Gipsy, 
Never  had  Squire  Erliston  been  so  angry  in  his  life. 
6* 


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i3«  THE    MOONLIGHT    FLITTING. 

Inwardly  vowing  that  she  should  repent  what  she  had 
done,  tlie  squire  **  bided  his  time" — little  dreaminf  how 
bitterly  he  was  destined  to  repent  that  tow. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE   MOONLIGHT   PUTTIIIO. 

'*Oh,  when  she's  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shr«w4  { 
She  tvas  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school, 
And  though  she  is  but  little,  she  is  fierce." 

HE  moonlight  was  falling  brightly  on  the 
lawn,  and  shimmering  like  silver  sheen  on 
the  leaves  of  the  horse-chestnuts,  as  Gipsy 
rode  home.  The  company  had  just  dispersed, 
and  the  squire  was  about  to  retire,  when  the 
clatter  of  horse's  hoofs  on  the  graveled  path  made  him 
start  up  and  hasten  out  to  the  porch.  And  there  he  be- 
held the  audacious  Gipsy  riding  fearlessly  toward  him, 
shouting  at  the  top  of  her  lungs  some  wild  chorus,  of 
which  he  only  caught   he  words  : 


"  You  must  place  in  my  coffin  «  bottla  sf  nd. 
And  say  a  good  fellow  is  gone.'* 


I 

'4 


"  If  I  don't  pay  her  off  before  I  sleep  to-night !"  mut- 
tered the  squire,  betvvcen  his  clenched  teeth.  "  I'll  put 
an  end  to  her  pranks,  or  know  for  why." 

Gipsy  leaped  lightly  from  her  horse,  and  resigning 
him  to  Jupiter,  ran  up  the  steps,  and  encountered  thi 
purple  face  and  blazing  eyes  of  her  angry  guardian. 


TME    MOONLIGHT    FLITTING. 


»3« 


"Good-evening,  Guardy  !"  was  her  salute.  *Nico 
light  *" 

"Stop  !"  said  the  squire,  catching  her  by  the  arm  aa 
?hc  was  about  to  run  past — "  stop  !     I've  an  account  to 
cttle  with  you,  my  lady  !" 

'*  Oh,  any  time  at  your  convenience,  Squire  Erliston  ; 
II  not  be  hard  on  you." 

**  Silence,  Miss  Impertinence  !  You  hare  the  impu- 
dence of  Satan  to  face  me  after  what  you  have  done  I" 

"  Now,  Guardy,  don't  be  unreasonable,  but  look  at 
the  matter  in  its  proper  light.  All  fashionable  people 
paint." 

*  Silence !"  exclaimed  the  squire,  in  a  voice  hoarse 
witn  rage.  "  Silence  !  before  I  brain  you,  you  little  vil- 
lain !  You  have  made  me  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
country  for  miles  around.  I  can  never  dare  to  show  my 
face  after  what  has  occurred,  without  being  jeered  and 
mocked  at.  And  all  through  you — the  creature  of  my 
bounty — the  miserable  little  wretch  who  would  have 
been  a  common  street-beggar  if  I  had  not  clothed,  and 
fed,  and  educated  you  ! — through  you,  you  brazen-faced, 
good-for-nothing  little  pauper,  whom  I  would  have 
kicked  out  long  ago  to  the  workhouse  where  you  belong, 
if  I  had  not  feared  the  opinion  of  the  world.  Begone 
from  my  sight,  before  I  am  tempted  to  brain  you  !" 

His  face  was  perfectly  livid  with  the  storm  of  passion 
into  which  he  had  wrought  himself.  As  he  ceased,  he 
raised  his  hand  and  brutally  struck  her  a  blow  that  sent 
her  reeling  across  the  room. 

Then  all  the  demon  in  her  fiery  nature  was  aroused. 
With  the  shriek  of  a  wounded  panther,  she  leaped  to 
ward   him,   with  clenched   hands,    biazing  eyes,    hard- 
ground  teeth,  ghastly  face,  convulsed  brow,  and  eyes 
that  fairly  scintillated  sparks  of  fire.    She  looked  a  per- 


it 


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4  **t' 


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11« 


THE  ^fooyrJnTTT  FurrrirG. 


feet  little  fiend.  a«»  she  ijlared  upon  him    quivering  In 
every  nerve  uuti  trenzicd  p;issiou. 

The  old  sinner  drew  bark  appalled,  frightened  into 
cal:rjt)cs.s  h"  i!i  it  dark,  fierce  ""icc.  For  a  moment  she 
cxpt  cted  she  would  spring  at  his  throat  like  a  tip^ess  and 
8tranL;le  him.  liiU,  uilli  a  loni::,  wild  cry,  she  claspec 
her  iuuK^  alwc  her  head,  and  lied  swifrly  iipstiirs,  dis 
apprir  lu^  live  .>o:ne  cllin  .>priie  in  the  drirkness  beyond 

"(rood  Lord  I"  nunterrd  the  squire,  wiping  the  drops 
of  trrror  off  h"s  fare.  "  What  a  j>erfert  little  devil  ! 
Did  ever  an\'one  see  such  a  look  on  a  human  face  be- 
fore '  It's  mv  ooinitjn  she's  allied  to  Old  Nick,  and  will 
oarrv  ine  oil  some  niirht  in  a  brimstone  of  cloud  and 
fire — 1  mean  a  tire  of  rIoMd  and  brimstone.  Good 
gracious  !  I'm  palpitating  like  a  hysterical  girl.  I  never 
got  such  a  fright  in  my  li(e.  I  vow  it's  a  danger  to  go 
to  bt  d  with  tha:  de-.-pi  rate  little  limb  in  the  house,  i 
sliouldn't  woiulcr  it  siie  set  tlie  place  on  fire  al>out  oui 
cars  and  burned  us  all  i:i  our  beds,  or  cut  our  throats,  q\ 
something.  She  looked  wild  and  crazy  enough  lo  do  it. 
Well.  I  reckon,  I'll  be  more  careful  how  I  chatise  hei 
for  the  future,  that's  certain." 

So  saying,  the  squire  took  his  night-lamp  and  wen! 
oH  to  bed,  taking  the  precaution  to  double  lock  his  door, 
lest  the  "  little  imp"  should  take  it  into  her  head  to  carry 
bim  off  bodily  dutmg  the  night. 

No  such  catastrophe  occurred,  however,  and  when 
the  squire  wetu  do»vn  to  breakfast,  he  found  everything 
going  on  as  usual.  I/izzie  lay  on  a  lounge,  immersed 
in  the  pages  of  a  novel,  and  Louis  sat  by  the  window 
busily  sketching,  as  was  liis  custom. 

*'  I  say,  Lizzie,  have  you  seen  anything  of  Gipsy  this 
Bom'ng  ?"  he  inquired,  as  he  entered. 

**No,  papa." 

'Td  rather  think  she  rode  off  befort  mmj  of  ui  were 


THIS.    MOONLIGHT    FLITTING. 


>U 


op  this  morning,"  said  Louis,  raising  h^s  head.  **  MIg< 
nonne  «s  noi  in  the  stable." 

Tliis  was  nulhiii^  unusual,  so  without  waiting  fo** 
her,  the  family  6aL  down  to  breakfast. 

But  hail  an  hour  after,  Tutty  came  running  in  alarm 

o  Mrs.   Crovver,  to  say  Miss  Gipsy's  bed  had  not  been 

'lept  in  all  night.     This   fact  was  self-evident ;  and  the 

v/urlhy  housekeeper  sought    out    the    squire    to    learn 

wliether  Gipsy  had  returned  home  the  night  before. 

"  Ves,  yes,  to  be  sure  she  did.  'Night  brings  home 
all  stragglers,'  as  Solomon  says.     Why  ?" 

"  Because  she  has  not  slept  in  her  bed  the  livelong 
night." 

"No!"  shouted  the  squire,  springing  from  his  seat, 
as  if  some  one  had  speared  him.  '*  Lord  bless  me  !  where 
can  she  have  gone  ?" 

•'  Ah,  Squire  Erliston,  you  do  not  think  anything  has 
happened  to  the  dear  child,  do  you  ?"  said  Mrs.  Gower, 
clasping  her  iiands. 

"Fiddle-de-dee,  woman,  of  course  not.  She's  gone 
back  to  Deep  Dale,  I'll  lay  a  wager  Oh,  here  comes 
young  Rivers,  nosv  we'll  know." 

"Archie,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gowei,  as  that  young 
gentleman  entered  the  room,  "did  Gipsy  go  back  to 
Deep  Dale  last  night  ?" 

"  Go  back  !     Why,  of  course  sue  didn't." 

"  Oh,  Squire  Erliston,  you  hear  that.  Oh,  where  can 
Jhat  crazy  creature  have  gone  ?"  exclaiiaed  Mrs.  Gower, 
twisting  her  fingers  in  distress. 

"  Why,  what's  wrong  *  Where  is  Gipsy  V*  ask<td 
Archie,  in  surprise. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She  came  home  xate  last  night, 
anc  must  have  gone  away  somewhere,  for  she  never 
weat  to  bed  at  all.    Ob,  I  am  sure  she  has  been  killed 


(H 


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'    ;i:;;'l 

134 


THE    MOONUGBT   FLTTTTJfG, 


m 


or  drowned,  or  shot,  or  something  I  1  alwajs  kaew  it 
would  happen,"  and  Mrs.  G^ower  fairly  began  to  cry. 

"  Knew  what  would  happen  ?"  said  Archie,  perplexed 
and  alarmed. 

''Something  or  other.  I  always  said  it;  and  now 
nay  words  have  come  true,"  replied  Mrs.  Gower  sobbing. 

"  Mrs.  Gower,  ma'am,  allow  me  to  tell  you,  you're  a 
fool !"  broke  out  the  squire.  "  Most  likely  she  didn't 
feel  sleepy,  and  rode  off  before  you  were  out  of  your 
bed  this  morning,  just  like  the  young  minx.  Ring  the 
bell,  and  we'll  see  what  time  she  started." 

Archie  obeyed,  and  Totty  made  her  appearance. 

"  Tott,"  said  the  master,  "  be  off  with  you,  and  send 
Jupiter  here  immediately." 

Totty  ducked  her  wooly  head  by  way  of  reply,  as  she 
ran  off,  and  presently  Jupiter  made  his  appearance  in  evi- 
dent trouble. 

"  Jupe,  you  black  rascal,  what  time  did  Gipsy  ride  off 
this  morning  ?"  asked  the  squire. 

"  Please,  mas'r,  it  warn't  dis  mornin'  she  rid  off,"  said 
Jupiter,  holding  the  door  ajar,  in  order  that  he  might  re- 
treat if  his  master  grew  violent. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?"  roared  his  master,  in 
rising  terror. 

"  'Deed,  mas'r,  I  couldn't  stop  the  young  wixen — de 
young  lady,  I  mean — she  dor't  mind  me,  no  how,  she 
don't/' 

"  Nor  anybody  else,  for  that  matter,"  groaned  the 
Bquire,  inwardly. 

*•  You  see,  mas'r,  artei  she  come  home,  I  tuk  Minnon 
inter  de  stable,  and  'gan  rubbin'  him  down,  'caze  he  was 
all  in  a  foam  she  doi.e  rid  him  so  hard.  WeU,  bout  half 
an  hour  artei,  as  I  was  goin'  to  bed,  I  hears  a  noise  in  di 
3rard,  an'  when  I  looks  out,  dar  was  Miss  Gipsy  takin'  de 


THE    MOONLIGHT   FUTTTHG. 


»3S 


il 

>w 

a 
in't 
)ur 

the 


horse  out  again.     'Deed  she  was,  tnas'r,  an'  fore  I  could 

get  out  she  war  gone — 'twan't  no  fault  of  mine.'* 

"  Oh,  Gipsy  !  Gipsy  !"  shcuted  t?ie  squire,  jumping 
lo  his  legs  and  stamping  up  and  down  the  floor  in  an 
agony  of  remorse  and  sorrow.  "  And  I've  driven  you 
from  home,  old  monster  that  I  am  !  I'm  a  brute  !  an 
alligatoi  !  a  crocodile  !  a  wretched  old  wretch  !  a  miser* 
able,  forsaken  old  sinner  !  and  I'll  knock  down  any  man 
that  dare  say  to  the  contrary  !  Oh,  Gipsy,  my  dear  little 
plague !  where  are  you  now  ?  My  darling  little  wild 
eaglet !  friendless  in  the  wide  w^orld  !"  Here  catching 
sight  of  Jupiter  still  standing  in  the  door- way,  he  rushed 
upon  him  and  shook  him  until  the  unfortunate  darkey's 
jaws  chattered  like  a  pair  of  castanets.  "  As  for  you,  you 
blark  rascal  !  I  have  a  good  mind  to  break  every  bone  in 
your  worthless  skin.  Why  didn't  you  wake  me  up,  sir, 
when  you  saw  her  going,  eh?     Answer  me  that  !" 

"  Mas'r — ma — ma — mas'r,"  stuttered  poor  Jupiter, 
palf  strangled,  "  'deed  de  Lord  knows  I  was  'fraid  to 
'sturb  ye.     Ma — ma — ma — mas'r " 

"  Silence,  sir  !  Up  with  you  and  mount — let  every 
man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  place  be  ofE  in  search  ol 
her.  And  Mrs.  Gowcr,  ma'am,  do  you  stop  snuffling 
there.  '  No  use  crying  for  spilled  milk,'  as  Solomon 
says.  We'll  have  her  home  and  soundly  thrashed  before 
night,  or  my  name's  not  Magnus  Theodoric  Erliston. 
Ha  !  there  !  Louis  !  Archie  !  the  rest  of  you,  mount  and 
oflE !  And  Mrs.  Gower,  ma'am,  do  you  run  out  and 
saddle  my  horse,  and  bring  him  round  while  I  draw  on 
my  boots." 

"Squire  Erliston,"  sobbed  the  poor  old  lady,  •' joi 
know  very  well  I  can't  saddle  your  horse.  Oh,  Gipsy  ! 
Gipsy  !"  she  added,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  tears. 

"Well,  fly  and  tell  some  of  the  rest,  then.  Women 
arc  such  worthless  creatures — good  for  nothing  but  cry- 


IS6 


THE    MOONUGMT    FLITTING. 


ing.  There  they  go,  with  Louis  and  young  Riven  at 
their  head,  to  scour  the  country.  '  In  the  days  when  wo 
went  gipsyiug,'  as  Solomon  says.  I  do  believe  that  little 
ix  iux  will  be  ihe  death  of  me  yet — I  know  she  will  !  Tm 
iosing  flesh;  I'm  losing  temper;  I'm  losing  cash !  I'm 
losing  rest,  and  losing  patience  every  day.  She'll  bring 
my  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave,  as  Solomon  says, 
only  I  happen  to  wear  a  wig,  Ah  !  there's  my  horse. 
Now  for  it  !  Gipsy  Gower,  you  little  torment,  you, 
won't  I  tell  you  a  piece  of  my  mind  when  I  catch  you  !" 

But  the  squire  was  destined  not  to  catch  her;  foi, 
though  they  continued  the  search  for  the  lost  one  until 
night,  no  rrace  of  her  could  be  found.  All  that  could  be 
learned  of  her  was  from  '\w  innkeeper  in  a  neighboring 
town,  some  twenty  miles  distant.  He  said  a  young  girl 
answering  the  description  given  of  Gipsy  hnd  arrived 
there  about  aaylight,  and,  after  taking  a  hasty  breakfast, 
had  left  her  horse — which  was  utterly  exhausted  by  the 
pace  with  which  slic  liad  ridden  him — and  started  in  the 
mail  coach  for  the  city. 

Mignonne  was  led  home,  and  as  it  was  too  late  to  go 
farther  that  day  the  tired  horsemen  returned,  silent  and 
dispirited,  homeward.  The  next  day  the  search  was  re- 
newed, and  the  driver  of  the  mail-coach  questioned  con- 
cerning the  little  fugitive.  He  could  throw  but  little 
lignt  on  the  subject  ;  she  accompanied  him  as  far  as  the 
city,  where  she  paid  her  fare  and  left  him.  And  that 
was  all  he  knew. 

Placards  were  posted  up,  and  rewards  offered ;  the 
police  were  put  upon  her  track  ;  but  all  in  vain.  And 
at  last  all  hope  was  given  up,  and  the  lost  child  was  re- 
signed to  her  fate. 

One  day,  about  three  weeks  after  her  dight,  the  post' 
ma/i  brought  a  letter  for  Mrs.  Gower.  One  glance  At 
the  •uperscriptiou,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy  she  tore  it  opeiv 


THE    MOONUQtiT    FUTTJNG, 


137 


for  it  wai  in  the  light,  careless  hand  of  Gipsy.  It  ran  at 
follows  : 

"My  Dear,  Darling  Aunty  : — I  suppose  jiAx.  have 

htid  great  times  up  at  Sunset  Hall  since  I  made  a  moon- 
light flitting  of  it.  I  wish  I  had  been  there  to  see  the 
fun  I  suppose  Guirdy  stamped  and  roared,  and  blew 
up  Jupiter,  and  blejsed  lue — after  his  old  style.  Well, 
you  know,  aunty,  I  just  couldn't  help  it.  Guardy  was 
getting  so  unbearable  there  was  no  standing  him,  and  so 
I'm  going  to  take  Gipsy  Gower  under  my  own  especial 
patronage,  and  make  a  good  girl  of  her.  Don't  be  angry, 
now,  aunty,  because  I'll  take  precious  good  care  of  my- 
self— see  if  I  don't.  Tell  Guardy  not  to  make  a  fuss,  for 
fear  it  might  bring  on  the  gout,  ana  tell  him  not  to  keep 
searching  for  me,  for  if  he  hunts  till  he's  black  in  the 
face  he  won't  find  me.  Remember  me  to  Aunt  Liz,  and 
Louis,  and  Celeste,  and — and  Archie.  Tell  Archie  not  to 
fall  in  love  with  anybody  else  ;  if  he  doc?  he  may  look 
out  for  a  squall  from  your  own  little  Gipsy." 

This  characteristic  letter,  instead  of  comforting  the 
family,  plunged  them  into  stUl  deeper  trouble  on  her 
account.  Mrs.  Gower  wept  for  her  darling  unceasingly, 
and  would  not  be  comforted  ;  Lizzie  sighed  and  yawned, 
and  lay  on  her  lounge  from  uKjrning  till  night,  looking 
irearier  than  ever ;  and  the  servants  went  in  silence  and 
sadness  about  their  daily  business,  heaving  a  sigh  and 
shedding  a  tear  over  every  memento  that  recalled  poor 
Gipsy.  Now  that  she  was  gone  they  found  how  dearly 
they  loved  her,  in  spite  of  all  the  scrapes  and  troubles 
she  had  ever  cost  them, 

A  dull,  heavy,  stagnant  silence  hung  over  the  man- 
sion from  morning  till  night.  There  was  nomorebang- 
in|g^  of  doors,  and  Hying  in  and  out,   and  w^  and  dowa 


A\-A 


ill? 


'■% 


■'■4 


'■'hi 


■  'fJ 


m 
1 


«i-:W 


1^8 


THE    MOONLIGHT    FLITTIIfC. 


mu. 


Ill 


1!. 

1 

,1  ■. 

1 

1 

w 

1 

\  „ 

stairs,  and  scolding,  and  shouting,  and  singing  all  in  onfl 
burst,  now.  The  squire  was  blue-molding — fairly  "run- 
ning to  seed,"  as  he  mournfully  expressed  it — for  want 
of  his  little  torment. 

No  one  missed  the  merry  little  elf  more  than  the  lusty 
old  squire,  who  sighed  like  a  furnace,  and  sat  undis- 
turbed in  his  own  arm-chair  from  one  week's  end  to  the 
other.  Sometimes  Lou's  would  bring  over  Celeste,  who 
had  nearly  wept  her  gentle  eyes  out  for  the  loss  of  her 
friend,  to  comfort  him,  and  the  fair,  loving  little  crea- 
ture would  nestle  on  a  stool  at  his  feet  and  lay  her 
golden  head  in  his  lap,  and  go  to  sleep.  And  the 
squire  would  caress  her  fair,  silken  curls  with  his 
great,  rough  hands,  and  pat  her  white,  dimpling  shoul- 
ders, and  turn  away  with  a  hall  groan  ;  for  she  was  not 
Gipsy  ! 

As  for  poor  A/chie,  he  tock  to  wandering  in  the  woods 
and  shooting  unoffending  birds  and  rabbits,  because  it 
was  Gipsy's  favorite  sport,  and  looked  as  doleful  as 
though  he  had  lost  every  friend  in  the  world. 

"  Fall  in  love  with  any  one  else,"  indeed  !  Master 
Archie  scorned  the  idea,  and  began  to  have  sundry 
visions  of  joining  the  monks  of  La  Trappe  as  soon  as 
he  grew  old  enough.  This  and  his  other  threats  of 
going  to  sea,  of  enlisting,  of  killing  somebody,  by  way 
of  relieving  his  spirits,  kept  poor  Celeste  trembling  witli 
fear  for  him  frorr.  morning  till  night.  And  in  her  own 
gentle  way  she  would  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
cry  on  h":s  shoulder,  and  beg  of  him  not  to  say  such 
naughty  things,  for  that  Gipsy  would  come  back  yet — 
she  knew  that  f  he  would. 

But  Minnette,  who  didn't  care  a  straw  whether  Gips;^ 
ever  came  back  or  not,  would  laugh  her  short,  deriding 
laugh,  and  advise  him  to  become  a  Sister  of  Charity  at 
once.  And  Celeste  said  s^ie  would  be  one  when  she  grew 


THE    ''STAR    OF    THE    VALLEY:*      1.^9 

tip,  artd  then  she  would  be  always  near  to  comfort  him. 
And  Minnette's  taunts  always  sent  poor  Archie  cff  to 
the  H'oods  in  a  more  heart-brcken  state  of  mind  tlian 
ever  before. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   "star   of   the   VALLlY." 

"  Face  and  figure  of  a  child, 

Though  too  calm,  you  think,  and  tender, 

For  the  childhood  you  would  lend  her." — BKOWifXiro. 

HE  winter  was  now  drawing  on.  The  short, 
bleak  November  days  had  come,  with  their 
chill  winds  and  frosty  mornings.  Miss 
Hagar  looked  at  the  slight,  delicate  form  and 
pale  little  face  of  her  protegee,  and  began  to 
talk  of  keeping  her  at  home,  instead  of  sending  her  to 
Sihool  during  the  winter  months. 

Celeste  listened,  and  never  dreamed  of  opposing  her 
wishes,  but  stole  away  by  herself,  and  shed  the  first  sel- 
fish tears  that  had  ever  fallen  from  her  eyes  in  her  life. 
It  was  so  pleasant  in  school,  among  so  many  happy 
young  faces,  and  with  the  holy,  gentle-voiced  Sisters  of 
Charity,  and  so  unspeakably  lonesome  at  home,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  look  out  of  the  window  at  gray  hil.'s 
and  leafless  trees,  and  listen  to  the  dreary  sighing  of  the 
wind.  Therefore  Celeste  grieved  in  silence,  and  strove 
to  keep  back  the  tears  when  in  Miss  Hagar's  presence, 
lest  she  should  think  her  an  iingratef'jl,  dissatisfied  lit*lo 
girl. 

One  oioriii^'ng,  however,  as  Miss  Hagar  entered  the 


:?  '9 


'■',  ?. 


:  ■it 
■At 


i'i 


i 

I 


■w 


140       TIf£    ''STAR    OF    THE    VALLEVr 

deserted  parlor,  she  found  Celeste  sitting  in  the  chimney* 
corner,  her  face  liidden  in  her  hands,  sobbing  gently  to 
herself.  A  little  surprised  at  this,  for  the  child  seemed 
always  smiling  and  happy  before  her,  Miss  Hagar  took 
wcr  on  her  knee,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Celeste,  though  her  cheek  glowed 
crimson  red,  as  she  felt  she  was  not  speaking  the  truth. 

''  People  don't  cry  for  nothing,  child  !"  said  the  aged 
spinster,  severely.     "  Whafsthc  matter  V* 

"  Please,  Miss  Hagar,  I'm  so  naughty,  but — but — I 
don't  want  to  leave  school." 

"  Don't  want  to  leave  school  ?  Why,  child,  you'd 
freeze  to  death  going  to  school  in  the  winter." 

"  But  Minnette  goes,"  pleaded  Celeste. 

"  Minnette's  not  like  you,  little  lily.  She's  strong  and 
hardy,  and  doesn't  mind  the  cold  ;  it  only  brings  living 
roses  to  her  cheeks ;  but  you^  little  whiff  of  down  that 
you  are,  you'd  blow  away  with  the  first  winter  breeze." 

Celeste  had  no  reply  to  make  to  this.  She  only 
hung  down  her  head,  and  tried  very  hard  to  swallow  a 
choking  sensation  in  her  throat. 

At  this  moment  Archie  burst  in,  in  his  usual  boister- 
ous manner,  all  aglow  with  snow-balling  Louis.  Mas- 
ter Rivers  seemed  in  very  good  condition,  notwithstand- 
ing the  loss  of  Gipsy  ;  though  I  rather  think  he  would 
have  been  induced  to  knock  any  one  down  who  would 
teil  him  he  had  forgotten  her. 

"What!  in  trouble  again,  little  sis?  Who's  been 
bothering  you  now  ?  Just  give  me  a  hint,  and  I'll  invite 
them  not  to  do  it  again." 

"  Why,  the  little  simpleton  is  crying  because  I  won't 
let  her  freeze  herself  to  death  going  to  ochool  all  win- 
ter !"  said  Miss  Hagar. 

"  Oh,  that's  it— is  It  ?  Dry  up  your  tears,  then, 
Birdie  ;  there's  '  balm  in  Gilead  '  for  you.    Yesterday, 


TffE     'STAR    OF    THE     VALLETr      I4t 


to 
Id 
k 


that  good-natu  ed  old  savac^e,  Squire  Krliston,  hearing 
me  tell  Louis  that  Celeste  could  not  c^o  to  school  owing 
to  the  distance,  immediately  insisted  that  we  should  all 
use  his  family  slcl^h  for  the  winter.  Now,  Miss  Ilagar^ 
see  how  those  radiant  smiles  chase  her  tears  away. 
We'll  nestle  you  uf»  in  the  buffalo  robes,  and  dash  off  to 
school  with  you  every  morning  to  the  music  of  the  jing- 
ling sleigh-bells.     Eh,  puss?  won't  it  be  glorious  ?" 

"  What's  that  ?"  said  Minnette,  entering  suddenly. 

"  Why,  Squire  Erliston  has  given  his  sleigh  up  to 
Pussy  here  to  take  her  to  school,  and  perhaps  we'll  take 
you  if  you're  not  cross,  though  the  squire  has  no  partic- 
ular love  for  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing,"  said  Minnette,  scornfully; 
"but  I  wouldn't  go  if  you  did  ask  me.  Before  I'd  be 
such  a  baby  !"  she  added,  glancing  contemptuously  at 
Celeste. 

And  Minnette  was  as  good  as  her  word,  positively 
refusing  even  the  stormiest  mornings  to  go  in  the  sleigh. 
Archie  exhausted  all  his  eloquence,  and  Celeste  pleaded 
tearfully,  offering  to  stay  at  home  and  let  her  take  her 
place;  but  Minnette  answered  all  their  entreaties  by  a 
sullen  "  I  won't."  Even  when  Louis,  the  only  living 
being  to  whom  her  high,  stubborn  will  would  bend, 
pleaded  with  her  to  come,  she  only  turned  away,  and 
said,  in  a  tone  very  gentle  for  her  : 

"No,  Louis,  don't  ask  me  ;  I  can't  go.  Why  should 
I  ?  I'm  no  trembling  little  coward  like  Celeste.  I  love 
the  winter  ! — yes,  twice  as  well  as  the  summer  I  The 
summer  is  too  still,  and  warm,  and  serene  for  me  !  But 
the  winter,  with  its  maddening  winds  and  howling 
storms,  and  white,  frosty  ground  and  piercing  cold 
breeze,  sends  the  blood  bounding  like  lightning  through 
every  vein  in  my  body,  until  I  fly  along,  scarcely  touch- 
iog  the  ground  beneath  me  !    Louis,  walking    alont 


;  ■•  .^i 


''if 


■  ■»,. 

:,  1 

' ''.  \  • 


""m 


'■^1 


tr- 


i4>        THE    ''STAR    OF    THE     VALLMY: 


^1" 


ill 


Ihiougii  the  drifted  snow,   I  feel  no  cold;  but  in  jour 
warm    'eigh  beside  /ler,  my  heart  would  feel  like  ice  !" 

"  Strange,  wild  girl  that  you  are  I  Why  do  you  di& 
like  Celeste  so  much  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  liked  any  one  in  ray  Ule— a? 
least  not  more  than  onf:»  Do  you  like  her  ?"  she  said 
lifting  her  eyes,  glancing  with  dusky  fire>  to  his  face. 

"like  her!"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  back  his  shuit, 
black  curls,  while  his  full,  dark  eye  kindled — "  like  thai 
lovely  little  creature  I  that  gentle  little  dove  I  that  sweet 
little  fairy  !  beautiful  as  an  angel  !  radiant  as  a  poet's 
dream  !  bewitching  as  an  Eastern  hour! !  Like  her  !  (Jii, 
Minnette  !" 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  fixed  her  gleaming 
eyes  on  the  bright,  handsome  face,  sparkling  with  bo;-- 
ish  enthusiasm  ;  then,  without  a  word,  turned  away,  and 
fled  from  his  sight. 

And  from  that  moment  her  hatred  of  Celeste  re- 
doubled tenfold  in  its  intensity.  Every  opportunity  of 
wounding  and  insulting  the  sensitive  heart  of  the  gentle 
child  was  seized  ;  but  every  insult  was  borne  with  pa- 
tience— every  taunt  and  sarcasm  met  with  meek  silence, 
that  only  exasperated  her  merciless  tormentor  more  and 
more.  Sometimes  Celeste  would  feel  rising  in  her  bosom 
a  feeling  of  dislike  and  indignation  toward  her  persecu 
tor;  and  then,  filled  with  remorse,  she  would  kneel  ir 
the  chapel  and  meekly  pray  for  a  better  spirit,  and  al- 
ways rise  strengthened  and  hopeful,  to  encounter  her 
arch-enemy,  with  her  taunting  words  and  deriding  black 
eyes. 

One  last  incident,  displaying  forcibly  their  different 
dispositions,  and  I  have  done  with  the  children^  Min- 
nette and  Celeste,  forever. 

The  Sisters  had  purchased  a  beautiful  new  statue  oi 
4lie  Madonna,  and  placed  it  in  the  refectory  until  it  coul^ 


TJiE    ''STAR    OF     THE     VALLEY, 


»f 


i4.i 


be  propeily  fixed  in  tlie  chapel.     The  children  were  re 
peatedly  lorbidden  to  enter  the  refectory  while  it  was 
there,  lest  it  should  accidentally  be  broken. 

One  day,  the  Sisters  had  given  a  conge^  and  their 
pupils  were  out  playing  noisily  in  the  large  garden  and 
grounds  attached  to  the  convent.  Minnette,  who  never 
liked  to  mingle  in  a  crowd,  selected  three  of  the  boldest 
spirits  present,  and  proposed  they  should  play  "  Puss  in 
the  corner"  by  themselves. 

*'  Oh  !  we  can't  here  in  this  great  big  place,"  was  the 
.eply  ;  "  besides,  the  other  girls  will  be  sure  to  join  us." 

'*  Let  us  go  into  the  class-room,  then,"  said  the  ad- 
venturous Minnette. 

"  Sister  Mary  Stanislaur  is  sweeping  out  the  class- 
room, and  she  won't  let  us,"  said  one  of  the  girls. 

'*  Well,  then,  there's  the  refectory,"  persisted  Min- 
nette. 

"Oh  !  we  daren't  go  there  !  Mother  Vincent  would 
be  dreadfully  angry.  You  know  the  new  statue  is  there !" 
said  the  gi^'ls,  aghast  at  the  very  idea. 

"Such  cowards  !"  exclaimed  Minnette, her  lip  curling 
and  her  eye  i^lashing.  "  I  wish  Gipsy  Gower  were  here. 
Sfu  would  :iOt  be  afraid." 

"/ain't  a  coward!  I'll  go!"  cried  one,  following 
the  daring  Min^ttte,  who  had  already  started  for  the  for- 
bidden room.  I'iie  Dthers,  yielding  to  their  bolder  spirit, 
followed  after,  and  3oon  were  wildly  romping  in  the  re- 
fectory. 

Suddenly,  Minrcile,  in  her  haste,  rushed  against  the 
shelf  where  the  statut  3;;ood.  Down  it  came,  with  a  loud 
crash,  shivered  into  a  iKoasand  fragments. 

The  four  girls  stooa  pale,  aghast  with  terror.  Even 
Minnette's  heart  for  a  nio.nent  ceased  to  beat,  as  sh* 
gazed  on  the  broken  pieces  ^f  the  exquisite  statue.    It 


if  ! 


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was  but  for  a  moment ;  all   her   presence  of  mini!  r»< 
turned,  as  she  breathlessly  exclaimed  : 

"Sister  will  be  here  in  a  moment  and  catch  us.  Let 
ns  run  out  and  join  the  other  girls,  and  she'll  never 
know  who  did  it." 

In  an  instant  they  were  rushing  pell-mell  from  the 
room.  Minnette  was  the  last,  and  as  she  went  out  he! 
eye  fell  upon  Celeste  coming  along  the  passage.  A  pro 
ject  for  gratifying  her  hatred  immediately  flashed  across 
her  mind.  Seizing  Celeste  by  tlie  arm  she  thrust  her 
into  the  refectory,  closed  the  door,  and  fled,  just  as  the 
Sister,  startled  by  the  noise,  came  running  to  the  spot. 

She  opened  the  door  !  There  stood  Celeste,  pale  and 
trembling,  gazing  in  horror  on  the  ruins  at  her  feet. 

An  involuntary  shriek  from  Sister  Stanislaus  brought 
all  the  nuns  and  pupils  in  alarm  to  the  spot.  Celeste 
had  entered  the  forbidden  room — had,  by  some  accident, 
broken  the  beautiful  and  costly  statue  ;  that  was  a  fact 
self-evident  to  all.  She  did  not  attempt  to  deny  it — her 
trembling  lips  could  franie  no  words,  while  the  r^o/ cul- 
prits stood  boldly  by,  silent  and  unsuspected. 

Celeste  was  led  away  to  appear  before  "  Mother  Vin- 
cent," and  answer  trie  heavy  charge  brought  against  her. 
She  well  knew  how  it  all  happened,  and  could  very 
easily  have  cleared  herself  ;  but  she  had  just  been  read 
ing  a  lecture  on  humility  and  self-denial,  and  heroically 
resolved  to  bear  the  blame  sooner  than  charge  Minnette, 
"  Minnette  will  hate  me  worse  than  ever  if  I  tell,"  sh« 
thought;  "and  I  must  try  and  get  her  to  like  me.  Be- 
sides, I  deserve  pur.ishment,  for  I  felt  dreadfully  bad  and 
naughty,  when  she  made  the  girls  laugh  at  me  this  morn- 
ing. 

So  Celeste  met  the  charge  only  by  silence,  and  fobs, 
A&d  tears  ;  and  Mother  Vincent,  leading  hor  into  tbo 


an 


THB    *'STAR    OF    THE    VALLEVr      145 


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clus-room,  where  all  the  girls  and  teachers  were  assem- 
bled, administered  ii  public  reproof. 

**  Had  it  been  any  of  the  other  girls,"  she  said,  "  she 
would  not  have  felt  surprised ;  but  Celeste  was  such  a 
go'xlgirl  generally,  she  was  indeed  surprised  and  grieved. 
It  was  not  for  the  loss  of  the  statue  she  cared  most — 
though  that  could  scarcely  be  replaced — but  so  glaring 
an  act  of  disobedience  as  entering  the  refectory  could 
not  go  unpunished.  Therefore,  Sister  Mary  Joseph 
would  lead  Celeste  off  and  leave  her  by  herself  until 
school  was  dismissed,  as  a  warning  to  be  more  obedient 
in  future." 

And  Celeste,  with  her  fair  face  flushed  with  shame— 
her  bosom  heaving  with  sobs  as  though  her  gentle  heart 
would  break — was  led  away  to  the  now  unforbidden  re- 
fectory, and  left  alone  in  her  deep  sorrow.  The  real  cul- 
prits sat  silent  and  uneasy,  starting  guiltily  when  a  low, 
suppressed  sob  would  now  and  then  reach  their  ear. 
But  Minnette,  with  her  black  eyes  blazing  with  triumph, 
her  cheeks  crimson  with  excitement,  sat  bold  and  un- 
daunted, proud  and  rejoicing  in  her  victory. 

That  evening  one  of  the  girls,  unable  to  endure  the 
stings  of  conscience,  went  to  the  Mother  Superior  and 
nobly  confessed  the  whole.  The  good  lady  listened 
amazed,  but  silent.  Celeste  was  released,  brought  before 
her,  and  confronted  with  Minnette. 

"  Why  did  you  tell  this  falsehood,  Minnette  ?"  said 
the  justly  indignant  lady,  turning  to  her. 

"  I  told  no  falsehood,  madam,"  she  said,  boldly, 
though  her  cheek  glowed  like  fire,  and  her  falcon  eyj 
fell  beneath  the  keen,  steady  gaze  of  the  other. 

"  You  acted  a  falsehood,  then,  which  is  quite  as  bad,*' 
said  Mother  Vincent ;  *'and  I  am  pained  beyond  meas- 
ure to  find  so  artful  and  w'cked  a  disposition  in  one  so 
jroung.    And  you,  my  child,"  she  added,  drawing  Celcita 


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toward  her  and  caressing  he:  golden  head  ;  "why  did 
you  suffer  this  wrong  in  silence  ?" 

"Because  I  deserved  it,  Mother;  I  didn't  like  Min- 
nette  this  morning,"  she  answered,  dropping  her  pale 
face  s£.dly. 

A  glance  that  might  have  killed  her,  it  was  s« 
dazzlingly,  intensely  angry,  shot  from  the  lightning  eye« 
of  Minnctte. 

After  a  few  brief  words,  both  were  dismissed.  The 
sleigh  stopped  to  take  up  Ce'este,  and  Minnette  walked 
proudly  and  sullenly  home. 

When  she  reached  the  house  she  found  Celeste  stand- 
ing in  the  door-way,  with  Louis  beside  her,  twining  her 
golden  curls  over  his  fingers.  All  the  evil  passions  in 
Minnette's  nature  were  aroused  at  the  sight.  Springing 
upon  her,  fairly  screaming  with  rage,  she  raised  her 
clenched  hand  and  struck  her  a  blow  that  felled  her  to 
the  ground.  Then  darting  past,  she  flew  like  a  flash  up 
the  polished  oaken  staircase,  and  locked  herself  in  her 
own  room  ;  but  not  until  the  wild  cry  of  Louis  at  the  de- 
moniac act  reached  her  ear,  turning  her  very  b.'ood  to 
gall. 

He  sprang  forward,  and  raised  Celeste  up.  She  had 
struck  on  a  sharp  icicle  as  she  fell,  and  the  golden  hair 
clung  to  her  face  clotted  with  the  flowing  blood.  Pale 
and  senseless,  like  a  broken  lily,  she  lay  in  his  arms,  as, 
with  a  heart  ready  to  burst  with  anguish,  Louis  bore  her 
into  the  house  and  laid  her  on  a  sofa.  His  cry  brought 
Miss  Hagar  to  the  spot.  She  stood  in  the  door-way,  and 
with  her  usual  calmness  surveyed  the  scene.  Celeste  lay 
without  life  or  motion  on  the  sofa,  and  Louis  bent  over 
her,  chafing  her  cold  hand«,  and  calling  her  by  every 
tender  and  endearinaf  name. 

"Some  of  Minnette's  handiwork,"  she  said,  coming 
forward ;  "  poor  little  white  dove,  that  vulrar«  would 


MiQ. 
pale 


THE    ''STAR    OF     THE     VALLEY.*      147 

tear  out  your  very  heart  if  she  cculd.  But  my  wordi 
will  come  true,  and  s(juie  day  she  will  find  out  she  has  a 
heart  herself,  when  it  is  torn  quivering  and  bleeding  iu 
strong  agony  from  the  roots." 

"Oh,  Miss  Hagar,  do  you  think  she  is  dead?"  cried 
Louis,  his  brave,  strong  heart  swel.ing  and  throbbing  in 
an  agony  of  grief. 

•'  No  ;  I  hope  not.     Ring  the  bell,*'  was  her  answer, 

Louis  obeyed ;  and  having  dispatched  the  servant 
who  piiswered  it  for  the  doctor,  she  proceeded  to  wash 
the  blood  from  the  wound.  Doctor  Wiseman  came  in 
with  tiie  utmost  indifference  ;  listened  to  the  story,  said 
it  was  "just  like  Minnctte  ;"  thought  it  ten  chances  to 
one  whether  she  would  ever  recover  ;  gave  a  few  gen- 
eral directions  as  to  how  she  was  to  be  treated,  and  went 
off  to  sip  his  coffee  and  read  the  newspaper. 

Louis'  indignation  knew  no  bounds. 

"  Leave  this  detestable  old  house,"  he  exclaimed  im- 
petuously, to  Miss  Hagar  ;  "take  Celeste  over  to  Sunset 
Hall,  and  live  with  us.  Grandfather  is  rough,  but  kind 
and  generous  ;  and  you  and  poor  little  Celeste  will  be 
warmly  welcomed.     Do  come,  Miss  Hagar." 

**  No,  Louis,"  said  Miss  Hagar,  shaking  her  head. 
"  I  thank  you  for  your  kind  offer  ;  but  I  cannot  be  de- 
pendent on  anybody.     No  ;  I  cannot  go." 

"  But,  good  heavens  !  Miss  Hagar,  will  you  stay  and 
let  that  hawk-heart  Minnette  kill  this  pooi-,  gentle  little 
soul,  who  is  more  like  an  angel  than  a  liviag  child." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Hagar  ;  "there  is  a  cottat^e  belonging 
to  me  about  half  a  mile  from  here,  at  a  plat:e  called  Little 
Valley.  You  know  it,  of  course.  Well,  i  shall  have  it 
furnished ;  and  as  soon  as  Celeste  recovers,  if  she  ever 
does  recover,  poor  child,  I  shall  go  there.  Thank  the 
Lord  !  I'm  ab'.e  to  support  myself  ;  and  theie^>»^  wJll  be 
btjond  the  power  of  Minnette." 


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"  Beyond  the  power  of  Minnettc,"  thought  Louis,  as 
he  walked  homeward.  "  Will  she  ever  be  beyond  tho 
power  of  that  mad  girl  ?  What  can  have  made  her  hate 
that  angelic  little  creature  so,  I  wonder?" 

Ah,  Louis  !  Ten  years  from  hence  will  you  need  to 
Ask  that  question  ? 

The  indignation  of  all  at  Sunset  Hall  at  hearing  of 
Minnette's  outrageous  conduct  was  extreme.  The  squire 
was  sure  that  "  bedeviled  tigress  wc  Id  never  die  in  bed." 
Mrs.  Gower's  fai  bosom  swelled  with  indignation,  and 
even  Lizzie  managed  to  drawl  out  "  it  was  positively  too 
bad."  And  immediately  after  hearing  it  Mrs.  Gower 
ordered  out  the  sicigh,  and  loading  it  with  delicacies  for 
the  little  suffcicr,  set  out  for  Deep  Dale,  where  she  found 
her  raving  in  the  delirium  of  a  brain  fever. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  ere  Celeste  rose  from  her  bed, 
pale  and  weak,  and  frailer  than  ever.  Minnette,  with 
proud,  cold  scorn,  met  the  reproachful  glances  of  those 
around  her  ;  and  never  betrayed,  by  word  or  act,  the 
slightest  interest  in  the  sufferer.  Only  once,  when  Ce- 
leste for  the  first  time  entered  the  parlor,  supported  by 
Louis,  did  she  start  ;  and  the  blood  swept  in  a  crimson 
tide  to  her  face,  dyeing  her  very  temples  fiery  red.  She 
turned  aside  her  head  ;  but  Celeste  went  over,  and  taking 
her  unwilling  hand,  said,  gently  : 

"  Dear  Minnette,  how^  gl^^d  I  am  to  sec  you  once  more. 
It  seems  such  a  long  time  since  we  met.  Why  did  you 
aot  come  to  see  me  when  I  was  sick  ?" 

*'  You  had  more  agreeable  company,"  said  Minnette, 
in  a  low,  cola  voice,  glaring  her  fierce  eyes  at  Louis  as 
she  arose.  "  Excuse  me,"  and  she  passed  haughtily  from 
the  room. 

Miss  Hagar's  Valley  Cottage  was  now  ready  for  her 
reception  ;  and  as  soon  as  Celeste  could  bear  to  be  re 
moved  they  quitted  Deep  Dale.    Celeste  shed  a  few  tears 


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THE    ''STAR     OF     THE     VALUtYr      149 

«t  she  bade  good-bye  to  the  doctor  and  Minnette,  but 
they  were  speedily  turned  to  smiles  as  Louis  gayly  lifte<I 
her  in  his  arms  and  placed  her  in  the  sleigh  beside  Archie. 
Then,  seating  himself  on  the  other  side  of  her,  he  shouted 
a  merry  adieu  to  Minnette,  who  seemed  neither  to  see  nor 
hear  him  as  she  leaned,  cold  and  still,  against  the  door. 
Miss  Hagar  touk  iior  seat  in  front  with  the  driver ;  and 
off  the  whole  party  dashed. 

As  the  spring  advanced  the  roses  once  morebloomec 
upon  the  pale  cheeks  of  Celeste;  and  the  fair  "  Star  of 
the  Valley,"  as  Master  Louis  had  poetically  named  her, 
was  known  far  and  wide.  Celeste  had  never  been  so 
happy  before  in  her  lilo.  livery  day  brought  Louis  or 
Archie  to  the  cottage,  with  books,  flowers,  or  pictures,  or 
something  to  present  their  **  star"  with.  And  as  yet 
Celeste  loved  them  both  alike,  just  as  she  did  Miss 
Hagar,  just  as  she  did  Mrs.  Gower.  Though  weeks  and 
months  passed  away,  Minnette  never  came  near  them. 
Som.,times  Celeste  went  with  the  boys  to  see  her ;  but 
her  reception  was  always  so  cold  and  chilling  that, 
fearing  her  vi-iits  displeased  her,  she  at  last  desisted  alto- 
gether. 

And  Minnette,  strange  girl  that  she  was,  lived  her  own 
life  in  secret.  She  sat  in  her  own  room,  silent  and  alone, 
the  livelong  day  ;  for  after  that  eventful  morning  on 
which  the  statae  was  broken,  she  would  go  to  school  no 
more.  With  her  chin  leaning  on  her  hand,  she  would 
sit  for  hours  with  her  glittering  black  eyes  fixed  on  the 
fire,  thinking  and  thinking,  while  the  doctor  sat  silently 
reading  by  himself,  until  finally  Master  Archie,  with  a 
jaw-splitting  yawn,  declared  that  he  would  go  and  be  a 
Sister  of  Charity  if  they'd  take  him  ;  for  oi"  all  the  old 
tombs  ever  he  heard  of,  Derp  Dale  beat  them  hollow. 


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CHAPTER  XVL 

OUR  GIPSY. 

"  Leaping  spirits  bright  as  air, 
Dancing  heart  untouched  by  carSt 
Sparkling  eye  and  laughing  brow, 
And  mirthful  cheek  of  joyous  glow.' 

|N  tlie  spring  Louis  and  Archie  were  to  go  to 
New  York  and  enter  college.  The  squire, 
who  was  dying  by  inches  of  the  inaction  at 
Sunset  Hall,  resolved  to  accompany  them  ; 
and  Lizk.ie,  rousing  herself  from  her  indo- 
lence, also  resolved  to  accompany  them.  Doctor  Wise 
man  intended  sending  Minnette  to  boarding-school,  and 
Miss  Hagar  offered  to  send  Celeste,  likewise,  if  she  would 
go  •  but  Celeste  pleaded  to  remain  and  go  to  the  Sisters; 
and  as  it  happened  to  be  just  what  Miss  Hagar  wished, 
she  consented. 

The  evening  before  that  fixed  for  the  departure  of  the 
boys  was  spent  by  them  at  the  Valley  Cottage.  Archie 
was  in  unusually  boisterous  spirits,  and  laughed  till  he 
made  the  house  ring.  Louis,  on  the  contrary,  was  silent 
and  grave,  thinking  sadly  of  leaving  home  and  of  part- 
ing with  his  friends. 

Celeste,  who  always  caught  her  tone  from  those  around 
her,  was  one  moment  all  smiles  at  one  gay  sally  of 
Archie's,  and  the  next  sighing  softly  as  her  eye  fell  upon 
the  grisf-bowed  young  head  of  Louis.  Miss  Hagar  sal 
by  the  fire  knitting,  as  stiff,  and  solemn,  and  grave  as 
usual. 

"  It  will  be  a  year— twelve  whole  months — before  we 
all  meet  ag^ain,'   said  Louis,  with  a  ligh. 


OUR    GIPSY, 


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^  Oh,  dear !"  said  Celeste,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears  ; 
'  it  will  be  so  lonesome.  It  seems  to  me  the  time  will 
never  pass." 

"  Oh,  it  will  pass — never  fear,"  said  Archie,  in  the 
confident  tone  of  one  who  knows  he  is  asserting  a  fact ; 
'*and  we'll  come  back  young  collegians — decidedly  fast 
jroung  men — Mirabik  diciu — that's  Latin — and  I'll  marry 
fou,  sis.     Oh,  I  forgot  Gipsy." 

Here  Archie's  face  suddenly  fell  to  a  formidable 
length,  and  he  heaved  a  sigh  that  would  have  inflated  a 
balloon. 

"  Oh,  if  Gipsy  were  here  it  wouldn't  be  a  bit  lone- 
some— I  mean,  not  so  much.  Minnette's  going  away,  too," 
said  Celeste,  sadly. 

"  Well,  you  needn't  care  for  her,  I'm  sure,"  said 
Archie,  gruffly.  "  She's  as  sharp  as  a  bottle  of  cayenne 
pepper,  and  as  sour  as  an  unripe  crab-apple.  For  my 
part,  I'm  glad  to  beoutof  the  way  of  her  dagger- tongue." 

"  Oh,   Archie,   please   don't,"    said   Celeste,   gently 
"  How  do  you  know  but  she  likes  you  now,  after  all  ?" 

"Likes  me?  Oh,  that's  too  good.  Hold  me,  some- 
body, or  I'll  split !"  exclaimed  Archie,  going  oflE  into  an 
inextinguishable  fit  of  laughter  at  the  very  idea. 

Loais  rose  and  went  to  the  door  ;  Celeste  followed 
him,  leaving  Archie  to  recover  from  his  laughter  and  ex- 
patiate to  Miss  Hagar  on  the  pleasures  and  prospects  he 
hoped  to  enjoy  In  Gotham. 

It  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  night.  The  bright  May 
moon  shed  a  shower  of  silvery  glory  over  the  cottage, 
and  bathed  them  in  its  refulgent  light. 

"  Oh,  Louis,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Celeste,  lay- 
ing her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Are  you  so  sorry  for  leaving 
home  ?" 

'<  I  don't  care  for  that,  Celeste ;  I  am  torrj  to  leave 


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''  But  it's  only  for  a  year.  I  will  be  here  wHen  jtw 
come  back." 

"  Will  you,  Celeste  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  Louis,  of  course  I  will." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,  Celeste.  There  will  be  some- 
thing here  taller  and  more  womanly,  who  will  talk  and 
act  like  a  young  lady,  and  whom  I  will  call  Miss  Peari  ^ 
but  the  little,  gentle  Celeste  will  be  here  no  longer." 

"  Well,  won't  it  be  the  same  with  you  ?"  said  Celeste, 
with  an  arch  smile.  "  Something  will  come  back  taller 
and  more  manly,  who  will  talk  and  act  like  a  young 
gentleman,  and  whom  I  must  call  Mr.  Oranmore,  I 
suppose.  But  the  Louis  who  brings  me  pretty  books, 
and  calls  me  '  the  Star  of  the  Valley,*  I  will  never  sec 
again." 

"Oh,  Celeste,  you  know  better  than  that.  Will  you 
think  of  me  sometimes  when  I  am  gone?" 

"  Oij,  yes,  always.  What  a  strange  question  !  Why, 
I  nevei  thought  of  asking  you  to  think  of  me,  though 
you  are  going  among  so  many  strangers,  who  will  make 
you  forget  all  your  old  friends." 

"You  know  I  couldn't  forget  any  of  my  old  friends, 
Celeste,  much  less  you.  I  shall  think  of  you,  and  Miss 
Hagar,  and  Mrs.  Gower,  and — yes,  and  poor  Gipsy  every 
day.  See,  1  have  brought  you  a  parting  gift,  Celeste,  for 
your  celestial  little  neck." 

So  saying,  he  drew  out  a  little  gold  chain  and  cross, 
and  threw  it  over  the  graceful  neck  that  bent  to  reoeiTf 
it. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  dear  Louis.  I  shall  prize  your  gift 
so  much.  How  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you  I  I  with  I 
had  something  to  give  you  in  return." 

"One  of  your  rurls  will  do." 

"  Will  it?    Oh,  then  you  shall  have  it." 

So  saving,  she  drew  out  a  tiny  pair  of  scissort  and 


OUR    GIPSY, 


151 


[me* 

land 

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iller 


•evered  a  Ic  ;ig,  shining  ring  of  gold  from  I  er  bright  .ittlc 
head. 

**  Hallo  !  what's  this  ?  Exchanging  true  lovers*  to- 
kens, by  all  that's  tender  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !"  shouted  Master 
Rivers,  appearing  suddenly,  and  roaring  with  laughter. 

"  Confound  you  !"  muttered  Louis,  giving  him  a  shake. 
'And  now  I   must  go  and  bid   Miss  Hagar  good-bye. 
A.rchie,  go  off  and  bring  the  gig  round.     Celeste,  staj^ 
here  ;  I'll  be  with  you  again  in  a  minute." 

So  saying,  Louis  entered  the  cottage,  shook  hands 
with  the  hoary  spinster,  who  bade  him  be  a  good  boy, 
and  not  bring  back  any  city  habits.  Then  going  to  the 
door,  where  Celeste  still  stood  looking  on  her  cross, 
and  closing  her  eyes  to  force  back  the  tears  that  were 
fast  gathering  in  them,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
said  . 

**  And  now  good-bye,  little  darling.  Don't  quite  forget 
Louis." 

"  Oh,  Louis,"  was  all  she  could  say,  as  she  clung  to 
his  neck  and  sobbed  on  his  shoulder. 

He  compressed  his  lips  and  resolutely  unclasped  her 
clinging  arms  ;  then  pressing  his  lips  to  her  fair  brow, 
he  leaped  into  the  gig,  seized  the  reins,  and,  in  his  excite- 
ment, dashed  off,  quite  forgetting  Archie,  who  had  lin- 
gered to  say  good-bye  to  Celeste. 

Archie  rushed  after  him,  shouting  "  Stop  thief  !  stop 
thief  !"  until  Louis,  discovering  his  mistake,  pulled  up, 
and  admitted  that  wronged  and  justly-indignant  young 
gentleman. 

"  Now  for  Deep  Dale,  to  bid  good-bye  to  Minnette 
and  Old  Nick,"  said  Archie,  irreverently,  "and  then  hie 
for  Sunset  Hall." 

"Yes,  poor  Celeste,"  said  Louis,  with  a  sigh,  evi- 
dently forgetting  he  had  a  companion ;  whereupon 
A.rchie  again  went  into  convulsions  of  laughter,  kicking 


\\ 


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«S4 


OUR    GIPSY. 


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i 

1,' 


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.;! 


ill 


up  his  heels  and  snapping  his  fingers  ii  an  ectaby  of  de^ 
light.  Louis  found  his  example  so  contagious,  that- 
after  trying  for  a  few  moments  to  preserve  his  gravity- 
he,  too,  was  forced  to  join  in  his  uproarious  mirth. 

On  their  arrival  at  Deep  Dale  they  found  the  doctor 
in  his  study.  Louis  bade  him  a  fcjrmal  farewell ;  and 
having  learned  that  Minnette  was  in  the  parlor,  he  went 
down  to  seek  her,  accompanied  by  Archie. 

She  sat  in  her  usual  attitude,  gazing  intently  out  of  the 
window  at  the  cold  moonlight.  She  looked  up  as  they 
entered,  and  started  violently  as  she  perceived  who  were 
her  visitors. 

"  Well,  Minnette,  we've  come  to  bid  you  good-bye,' 
said  Archie,  gayly,  throwing  his  arms  round  her  neck 
and  imprinting  a  cousinly  salute  on  her  cheek.  "  Good- 
bye for  twelve  months,  and  then  hie  for  home  and  a 
happy  meeting.  Louis,  I  leave  you  to  make  your  adieux 
to  Minnette,  while  I  make  mine  to  old  Suse,  down  in  the 
kitchen.  Mind,  Minnette,  don't  give  him  one  of  your 
curls,  as  I  saw  another  little  girl  do  awhile  ago,  unless 
he  gives  you  a  gold  cross  and  chain  in  return  for  it — he 
gave  her  one."  And  with  a  mischievous  laugh,  Archie 
clattered  down  stairs,  taking  half  the  staircase  at  a 
bound. 

She  drew  herself  back  and  up  ;  and  the  hand  she  had 
half  extended  to  meet  his  was  withdrawn,  as,  with  a  cold 
formal  bow,  she  said  : 

"  Farewell  !  I  wish  you  a  safe  journey  and  a  happy 
return." 

"  And  nothing  more  \  Oh,  Minnette  :  Is  it  thus  old 
friends,  who  have  known  each  other  from  childhood,  ar0 
to  part '     Just  think,  we  may  never  meet  again  !" 

"/?<?  you  care  V  she  asked,  in  a  softened  voice. 

'*Care!     Of  course  I  do,     Won't  you  shake  handle 


OUR    GIPSY, 


iSS 


Minnette  '    You're  not   half  l>s  soriy  to  let  ne  go  aa 

little  Celeste  was." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  don't  lose  so  much.  I  have  no  books, 
nor  flowers,  nor  visits,  nor  gold  crosses  to  lose  by  your 
absence,"  she  said,  sarcastical.y — her  face,  that  had  soft- 
ened for  a  moment,  growing  cold  and  hard  at  the  men- 
tion of  her  name.  ''  Good-bye  Louis,  and — I  wish  you 
all  success  and  happiness." 

The  hand  she  ext'jnded  was  cold  as  ice.  He  pressed 
it  between  his,  and  gazed  sadly  into  the  clear,  bright 
eyes  that  defiantly  met  his  own. 

"  Come,  Louis,  don't  stay  there  all  night !"  called 
Archie,  impatiently.  "Old  Suse  has  been  hugging  and 
kissing  me  till  I  was  half  smothered,  down  there  in  the 
kitchen  ;  and  it  didn't  take  her  half  the  time  it  does  you 
two.     Come  along." 

"  Good-bye  !  good-bye  !"  said  Louis,  waving  his  hand 
to  Minnette,  wlio followed  him  to  the  door;  and  the 
next  moment  they  were  dashing  along  at  break-neck 
speed  toward  Sunset  Hall. 

The  moonlight  that  nigiit  fell  on  Celeste,  kneeling  in 
her  own  little  room,  praying  for  Louis  and  Archie,  and 
sobbing  in  unrestrained  grief  whenever  her  eye  *ell 
upon  the  bright  gold  cross — his  parting  gift.  Appro- 
priate gift  from  one  who  seemed  destined  to  never  lay 
aught  but  crosses  upon  her  ! 

It  fell  upon  Minnette,  sitting  still  by  the  window 
with  a  face  as  cold  and  white  as  the  moonlight  on  which 
ihe  gazed.  She  did  not  love  Louis  Oranmore  ;  but  she 
admired  him — liked  him  better  than  any  one  else  she 
knew,  perhaps,  because  he  was  handsome.  But  she 
hated  Celeste  ;  and  his  evident  preference  for  her  kindled 
up  the  flames  of  jealousy  m  her  passionate  soul,  until 
she  could  have  killed  her  without  remorse. 

Tlic  next  morning  the  gay  party   set  out  for  New 


i 


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OUR    GIPSY, 


Iff 


York  ;  and  in  due  course  of  time  they  reached  that  lity 
and  put  up  at  one  of  the  best  hotels. 

**  Suppose  we  go  to  the  opera  to-night  ?"  said  Lizzie 
to  the  qui-e,  as  she  sat — all  her  languor  gone — looking 
out  of  the  window  at  the  stream  of  life  flowing  below, 

"  Just  as  you  like — it's  all  one  to  me,"  said  the  squiir^ 
with  most  sublime  indifference. 

"  Then  the  operp  be  it,"  said  Lizzie,  and  the  opem, 
accordingly,  it  was.  And  a  few  hours  later  found  then; 
cOiiifortably  seated,  listening  to  the  music,  and  gazing 
on  the  gayly-atiirer'  people  around  them. 

"  How  delightful  this  is  !"  exclaimed  Lizzie,  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  pleasure. 

"  Humph  .'—delightful !  Set  of  fools !  '  All  is  vanity,' 
as  Solomon  says.  Wonder  who  foots  the  bills  for  all 
this  glittering  and  shaking  toggery?"  grunted  the 
squire. 

"  I've  heard  them  say  that  the  young  danseuse^  *  La 
Petite  Eaglet,'  is  going  to  dance  to-night,"  said  Louis 
*  Everybody's  raving  about  her." 

"  Why  ?    Is  she  so  beautiful  ?"  inquired  Lizzie. 

"  No,  I  believe  not  ;  it's  because  she  dances  so  well," 
replied  Louis. 

At  this  moment  the  curtain  arose,  a  thunder  of  ap- 
plause  shook  the  house,  and  La  Petite  Eaglet  hersell 
stood  before  them.  A  little  straight,  lithe  figure,  arrayed 
in  floating,  gauzy  robes  of  white  silver  tiisue  and 
crowned  with  white  loses — a  small,  dark,  keen,  piquarl 
face — bright,  roguish  eyes,  that  went  dancing  like  light- 
ning around  the  house.  Suddenly  her  eye  fell  on  o\xi 
party  from  St.  Mark's  ;  a  slight  starr  and  a  quick  re- 
moval of  her  eyes  followed  The  applau&e  grew  deaf- 
ening as  the  people  hailed  their  favorite.  She  iL^owed. 
The  mvjsic  struck  merrily  up,  and  her  tiny  feet  went 
glancing,  like  rain -drops,  here  and  there.    She  seemed 


iii  i 


OUR     GIPSY. 


»5r 


Bty 

leni 


floating  in  air,  not  touching  the  ground,  as  she  whirled, 
and  flev/,  and  skimmed  like  a  bird  in  the  sunshine.  The 
squire  was  dizzy — absolutely  dizzy — looking  at  her. 
His  head  was  going  round,  spinnirg  like  a  top,  or  like 
her  feci,  as  he  gazed.  Lizzie  and  Loi  is  were  entranced, 
but  Archie,  after  the  first  glance,  sat  with  dilating  eyes 
and  parted  lips — incredulous,  amazed,  bewildered — with 
a  look  of  half-puzzled,  half-delighted  recognition  >n  his 
face. 

Still  the  little  dancer  whirled  and  pirouetted  before 
them  ;  and  when  she  ceased  a  shout  of  applause  thuu- 
dered  through  the  building,  shaking  it  to  its  center 
Flowers,  wreaths,  and  bouquets  fell  in  showers  around 
her  ;  ladies  waved  their  handkerchiefs  and  clapped  their 
little  hands  in  tlie  excitement  of  the  moment.  The 
opera-going  world  seemed  to  have  gone  mad.  And  there 
stood  the  little  Eaglet,  bowing  to  the  delighted  audience, 
the  very  impersonification  of  self-possession  and  grace. 

Suddenly,  rising  as  if  to  speak,  she  removed  the 
crown  of  roses  from  her  head.  There  was  a  profound, 
a  dead  silence,  where  lately  all  had  been  uproar.  Every 
eye  was  bent  in  wonder — every  neck  was  strained  to  see 
what  she  was  about  to  do. 

Taking  one  step  forward,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
box  occupied  by  the  squire  and  his  family.  Every  eye, 
as  a  matter  of  ».v»urse,  turned  in  that  direction  likewise. 
Raising  the  wreath,  she  thre"v  it  toward  them,  and  it 
alighted  in  triumph  on  the  brow  of  the  squire. 

In  a  moment  she  was  gone.  Up  sprang  Archie,  quite 
regardless  of  the  thousands  of  eyes  upon  him,  and  wav- 
ing his  cap  in  the  air  above  his  head,  he  shoated,  in  wild 
exultation  : 

<'I  knew  it!  I  knew  it  I  Its  9ur  G^syl—^i  G^^ 
GnvtrT 


h     I- 


m 


m 


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■'■m1 


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ist 


OrPSY'S    RETURJf. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


gipsy's  return  to  sunset  RAU» 


i! 


I 


"This  maiden's  sparkling  eyes 
Are  pretty  and  all  that,  sir  ; 
But  then  her  little  tongue 
Is  quite  too  full  of  chat,  sir."— Moout. 

^TE  effect  of  Archie's   announcement   on  oiti 

party  may   be   imagined.     Lizzie   uttered    a 

stJ.lcd  shriek  and  fell  back   in  her  seat  ;  the 

squire's   eves   protruded   until   tliey   seemed 

ready  to   burst   from   their  sockets  ;    Louis 

gazed   like   one   thunder-struck,   and    caught    hold    of 

Archie,   who  seemed  inclined  to  leap  on  the  stage   in 

search  of  his  little  lady-love. 

"  Let  me  ^ o  into  the  green-room — let  us  go  before  she 
leaves,"  cried  Archie,  struggling  to  free  himself  from  the 
grasp  of  Louis. 

The  crowd  were  now  dispersing  ;  and  the  squire  and 
his  party  arose  and  were  borne  along  by  the  throng, 
headed  by  Arch'e,  whose  frantic  exertions — as  he  dug 
his  elbows  right  nnd  left,  to  make  a  passage,  quite  re- 
gardless of  feelingf.  and  ribs — soon  brought  them  to  the 
outer  air  ;  and  ten  -r^inutes  later — the  squire  never  could 
tell  how — found  them  in  the  c-reen-room,  among  painted 
actresses  and  slip-shed,  shabby -looking  actors. 

Archie's  e)  es  danced  over  the  assembled  company, 
who  looked  rather  su.-prised,  not  to  say  indignant,  at 
this  sudden  entraiice,  ard  restfid  at  last  on  a  straight, 
slight,  little  figure,  with  i^s  bock  toward  them.  With 
one  bound  he  cleared  the  inL<»r,'«'"»ing  space  betwixt 
them,  and    without  waiting  to   s»y  '*hj  your  leaver* 


GIPSY'S    RETURIf. 


«S9 


clasped  hor  in  his  arms,  and  imprinted  a  kits  upon  her 
cheek. 

"  Dear  me,  Archie,  is  that  you  ?  Take  cartJ !  you're 
mussing  my  new  dress  dreadfully  I"  was  the  astound Ingly 
cool  salutation,  in  the  well-known  tones  of  our  little 
Gipsy. 

"  Oh,  Gipsy,  how  could  you  do  it  ?  Oh,  Gipsy,  it  wad 
iuch  a  shame,"  exclaimed  Archie,  reproachfully. 

At  this  moment  she  espied  Louis  advancing  toward 
her,  and  accosted  him  with  : 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Louis  ? — how's  Celeste  and  Minnette, 
and  Mignonne,  and  all  the  rest  ?     Pretty  well,  eh  ?** 

"  Gipsy  !  Gipsy  !  what  a  way  to  talk  after  our  long 
parting,"  said  Louis,  almost  provoked  by  her  indiffer- 
ence. '*  Yju  don't  know  how  we  all  grieved  for  you. 
Poor  Mrs.  Gower  has  become  quite  a  skeleton  crying  for 
her  *  monkey.' " 

"  Oh,  poor,  dear  aunty  I  that's  too  bad  now.  But 
here  comes  Guardy  and  Lizzie.  I  don't  think  Guardy 
was  breaking  his  heart  about  me  anyway  !  He  looks  in 
capital  condition  yet." 

At  this  moment  the  squire  came  over  with  Lizzie 
leaning  on  his  arm. 

*  Hallo  !  Guardy,  how  are  you  ?  How  did  you  like 
the  opera  ?"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  in  the  same  tone  she 
would  have  used  had  she  parted  from  him  an  hour  be- 
fore. 

"  Oh,  Gipsy  !  you  little  wretch  you  !  I  never  thought 
it  would  come  to  this,"  groaned  the  squire. 

"  No,  you  thought  I  wasn't  clever  enough !  Just  see 
how  easy  it  is  to  be  deceived  !  Didn't  I  dance  beauti- 
fully, though,  and  ain't  I  credit  to  you  now  ?  I'll  leave  it 
to  Archie  here.  Aunt  Lizzie,  111  speak  to  you  as  soon  at 
I  get  time.  Here  comes  old  Barnes,  the  manager  to 
kaow  what's  the  matter." 


f 


>:■  »»1 


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■m 


A 


m 


!,ti 


m 

'    '"'A 

,  'ill 


'it 


1 

■  1 

i 

SI 


I'll 

t 


i6e 


G/PS)  'S    RETURN. 


**Oh,  Clip-?)',  yoii'l!  come  home  with  us,  my  loTt,  you 
really  mast,"  cxcliiiined  Lizzie. 

"  Couidn'i,  aunty,  by  no  manner  of  means/' replic i 
Gipsy,  shukiuL?  her  head. 

•*  Biu.  ni  be  slioi  ii  you  //</«'/,  though,"  shouted  the 
•quire,  ''so  \\u  more  about  it.  Uo  you  think  I'm  going 
to  let  1  ward  of  mitu  ^'ct  with  a  gang  of  strolling  players 
any  longer  ?" 

"  I'm  no  ward  of  yours,  Squire  Erliston  ;  I'm  my  own 
mistress,  thanks  be  to  goodness,  free  and  independent, 
and  so  I  mean  to  stay,"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  with  spark- 
ling eyes. 

"  But,  oh,  my  dear  !  my  dear  Gipsy,  do  come  home 
with  us  to-niglii,"  pleaded  Lizzie,  taking  her  hand. 

"You  will,  Gipsy,  just  for  to-night,"  coaxed  Louis. 
And  :  "  Ah,  Gipsy,  ivont  you  now  ?"  pleaded  Archie, 
looking  up  in  her  saucy  little  face,  with  something  very 
like  tears  shining  in  his  usually  merry  blue  eyes. 

**  Well — maybe — just  for  to-night,"  said  Gipsy,  slow- 
ly yielding  ;  "  but  mind,  I  must  go  back  to-morrow." 

"And  may  I  be  kicked  to  death  by  grasshoppers,  i£ 
ever  I  /<•/  you  go  back,"  muttered  the  squire  to  himself. 

*'  Here  comes  the  manager,  Mr.  Barnes,"  said  Gipsy, 
t&i^ing  her  voice;  '*  these  are  my  friends,  and  I  am  going 
Irome  with  tliem  to-night." 

"You'll  be  back  to-morrow  in  time  for  the  rehear- 
^jil  f  inquired  Mr.  Barnes,  in  no  very  pleased  tone  of 
roice. 

"Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Gipsy,  as  she  ran  off  to 
get  her  hat  and  cloak. 

"  We'll  see  about  that  /"  said  the  squire,  inwardly,  with 
A  knowing  nod. 

Gipsy  soon  made  her  appearance.  A  cab  was  in 
waiting,  and  the  whole  party  were  soon  on  their  way  tt 
the  hotel. 


k 


GIPSY'S    RETURN. 


Ifi 


m 
led 

he 


"  And  now,  tell  us  all  your  adventures  since  the 
night  you  eloped  from  Sunset  Hall/'  said  Louis,  as  they 
drove  along. 

*'  By  and  by.  Tcii  me  first  all  that  has  happened  at 
St.  Mark's  since  I  left— ail  about  Celeste,  and  the  rest  of 
my  friends." 

So  Louis  related  all  that  had  transpired  since  her  de- 
parture— softening,  as  much  as  he  could,  the  outrageous 
conduct  of  Miuiictte. 

"  Poor  Celeste !"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  with  glowing 
cheeks  and  flashing  eyes.  "  Oh,  don't  I  wish  I'd  only 
been  there  to  take  her  part  !  Wouldn't  I  have  given  it 
CO  Minnette — the  ugly  old  thing  I — beg  pardon,  Archie, 
for  calling  your  cousin  n;imes." 

"  Oh,  you're  welcome  to  call  her  what  you  plea-.o, 
for  all  I  care,"  replied  Archie,  in  a  nonchai'^nr.  tone. 
"  I'm  not  dying  about  her." 

"There's  no  love  lost,  I  think,"  said  Louis,  laugh- 
ing. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  hotel.  Lizzie  took 
Gipsy  to  her  room  to  brush  her  hair  and  arrange  her 
dress,  and  then  led  her  to  the  parior,  where  the  trio 
were  waiting  them. 

"And  now  for  y  -ir  story  I"  exclaimed  Archie,  con- 
descendingly pushing  a  stool  toward  Gipsy  with  his 
/oot. 

"  Well,  it's  not  much  to  tell,"  said  Gipsy.  "After 
leaving  ^^«,  Guardy,  that  night,  in  an  excessively  amia- 
ble frame  of  mind,  I  went  up  to  my  room  and  sat  down 
to  deliberate  whether  I'd  set  fire  to  the  house  and  burn 
you  all  in  your  beds,  or  take  a  razor  and  cut  your  wind- 
pipe, by  wav  ^f  letting  in  a  little  hint  to  be  more  polite 
to  me  in  future." 

"  Good  Lord  I  I  just  thought  so  !"  ejaculated  the  hor* 
lifio  1  squire. 


"  ^1 


:  'n 


:  I;- 

I  hi 


Hi 


» ■  I  •■'  J 


■1^ 


'I 


r^:v 


si  li- 
fe*-i'-i 


!S.*S!^ 


li. 


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*     1-1  - 
f     'J- 


i6a 


GIPSY'S    RETURN. 


it 


Finally,  Guardv,  I  caiie  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
would  do  neither.  Both  were  unpleasant  jobs — at  least 
they  would  have  been  unpleasant  to  you,  whatever  they 
might  Iiave  been  to  me,  and  would  have  taken  too  much 
time.  So  I  concluded  to  let  you  burden  the  earth  a  little 
longer,  and  quote  Solomon  for  the  edification  of  the 
world  generally,  and  in  the  meantime  to  make  myself  as 
scarce  as  possible  ;  for  I'd  no  idea  of  staying  to  be 
knocked  about  like  an  old  dishcloth.  So  I  got  up,  took 
my  last  supply  of  pocket-money,  stole  down  to  the  sta- 
bles, mounted  Mignonne,  and  dashed  off  like  the  wind. 
Poor  Mignonne  !  I  ratiier  think  I  astonished  him  that 
night,  and  we  were  botli  pretty  well  blown  by  the  time 
we  reached  Brande's  Tavern. 

"  There  I  took  breakfast,  left  Mignonne — much 
against  my  will — jumped  into  the  mail-coach,  and  started 
lor  the  city.  Arrivtd  there,  I  was  for  awhile  rather  at  a 
loss  in  what  direct*  un  to  turn  my  talents.  My  pre- 
dominant idea,  however,  was  to  don  pantaloons  and  go 
to  sea.  Being  determined  to  see  the  lions,  while  I  staid, 
I  went  one  night  to  the  play,  saw  a  little  girl  dancing, 
and- — Eureka !  I  had  discovered  what  I  was  bori*  for  at 
last !  '  Couldn't  I  beat  that  ?'  sr*ys  I  to  myself.  And  so, 
when  I  went  home,  I  just  got  up  before  the  looking- 
glass,  stood  on  onQ  toe,  and  stuck  the  other  leg  straight 
out,  as  she  had  done,  cut  a  few  pigeon-wings,  turned  a 
somerset  or  two,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  if  I 
didn't  become  a  danseuse  forthwith,  it  would  be  the  great- 
est loss  this  wothi  ever  sustained — the  fall  of  Jerusalem 
not  excepted.  To  a  y<umg  lady  of  my  genius  it  was  no 
very  difficult  thing  to  accomplish.  I  went  to  see  Old 
Barnes,  who  politely  declined  my  services.  But  I  wasn't 
l^'oing  *to  give  it  up  so,  Mr.  Brown,*  and,  *ike  the  widow 
ic  the  Scripture,  I  ^vav  him  nc  peace,  night  or  day,  untii 


GIPSY^S    RBTUltN. 


i<3 


he  acc-cptcd  my  services.  Well,  after  that  all  wras  plain 
sailing  enough.  Maybe  I  didn't  astonish  the  world  by 
the  rapidity  with  which  my  continuations  went  up  and 
down.  It  was  wnile  there  I  wrote  that  letter  of  con- 
solation fo  Aunty  Gower,  by  way  of  setting  your  minds 
at  ease.  Then  we  went  to  Washington,  then  to  New 
York, and  everywhere  I  'won  golden  opinions  from  all 
sorts  of  people,'  as  Shakespeare,  or  Solomon,  or  some 
of  them  Old  fellows  says.  I  always  kept  a  bright  look- 
out for  you  all,  for  I  had  a  sort  of  presentiment  I'd 
stumble  against  you  some  day.  So  I  wasn't  much  sur- 
prised, but  a  good  pleased,  when  I  saw  Guardy's  dear 
old  head  protruding,  like  a  huge  overboiled  beet,  from 
one  of  the  boxes  to-night.     And  so — Finis  T 

"Gipsy,"  exclaimed  Archie,  "you're  a  regular  speci 
men  of  Young  America  !     You  deserve  a  leather  medal, 
or  a  service  of  tin  plate — you  do,  by  Jove  !" 

"*Pon  honor,  now?" 

"Oh,  Gipsy,  my  love,  I'm  very  sorry  to  think  you 
could  have  degraded  yourself  in  such  a  way !"  said 
Lizzie,  with  a  shockingly  shocked  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Degraded,  Aunt  Lizzie  !"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  indig- 
nantly. "  I'd  like  to  know  whether  it's  more  degrading 
to  earn  one's  living,  free  and  merry,  as  a  respectable, 
'sponsible,  danceable  dancer,  as  Totty  would  say,  or  to 
stay  dependinp^  on  any  one,  to  be  called  a  beggar,  and 
kicked  about  like  an  old  shoe,  if  you  didn't  do  every- 
thing a  snappish  old  crab  of  an  old  gentleman  took  into 
his  absurd  old  head.  I  never  was  made  to  obey  any  one 
— and  what's  more,  I  won't  neither.     There,  now  !" 

"Take  car;,  Gipsy  ;  don't  make  any  rash  promises,** 
said  Archie.  "You've  got  to  promise  to 'IcTfg  hocor, 
uid  obcj  *  me^  one  of  these  dajs.* 


'A' 

'     4  '.1 

v.] 


••?,«' 


"ym 


h  i.y 


•m 


111'"'- 1  n'    ''  I 


1| 


):■ 


.  ;  ' 


w  '!: 


164 


G/PSY'S    RETURN, 


"  Never-r-r  !  Obey  ><«,  indeed  I  Don't  y*u  wish  I 
may  do  it  ?" 

"  Well,  but,  my  love,"  said  Lizzie,  returning  to  the 
charge,  "  though  it  is  too  late  to  repair  what  you  have 
done,  you  must  be  a  dancing-girl  no  longer.  You  must 
return  home  with  us  to  Sunset  Hall." 

"  Return  to  Sunset  Hall  !  Likely  I'll  go  there  to  b« 
abused  again!  Not  I,  indeed,  Aunt  Lizzie;  much 
obliged  to  you,  at  the  same  time,  for  the  offer." 

''  And  I  vow.  Miss  Flyaway,  you  shall  go  with  us— 
there  !" 

"  And  I  vow,  G  uardy,  I  sha'tCt  go  with  you — there  !" 

"  I'll  go  to  law,  and  compel  you  to  come.  I'm  your 
rightful  guardian  !"  said  the  squire,  in  rising  wrath. 

"  Rightful  fiddlesticks  !  I'm  no  ward  of  yours;  I'm 
Aunty  Gower's  niece ;  and  the  law's  got  nothing  to 
do  with  me,"  replied  Gipsy,  with  an  audacious  snap  ot 
her  fingers  ;  for  neither  Gipsy  nor  the  boys  knew  how 
she  was  found  on  the  beach. 

*'  And  is  that  all  the  thanks  you  give  me  for  offering 
to  plague  myself  with  you,  you  ungrateful  little  var 
mint?" 

"  I'm  not  ungrateful.  Squire  Erliston  !"  flashed  Gipsy 
— a  streak  of  fiery  red  darting  across  her  dark  face.  "  Tm 
not  ungrateful  ;  but  I  won't  be  a  slave  to  come  at  your 
beck  ;  I  wotit  be  called  a  beggar — a  pauper  ;  I  woiit  be 
told  the  workhouse  is  my  rightful  home ;  I  won*t  be 
struck  like  a  cur,  and  then  kiss  the  hand  that  strikes  me; 
No !  I'm  not  ungrateful  ;  but,  though  I'm  only  a  littU 
girl,  I  won't  be  insulted  and  abused  for  nothing.  I  can 
earn  my  own  living,  free  and  happy,  without  whining 
for  any  one's  favor,  thank  Heaven  !" 

Her  little  form  seemed  to  tower  upward  with  the  con* 
•citfumess  of  inward  power,  her  eyes  filled,  biased,  and 


GTPSY^S    RE  TURN", 


»«J 


ih  I 

the 
iavr 
lust 

|o  b« 
luch 


dilated,  and  her  dark  cheek  crimsoned  with  prcud  defi< 
mce. 

The  squire  forg-ot  his  anp^er  as  lie  gazed  in  adciiration 
on  the  high-spirited  little  creature  standing  before  him, 
as  haughty  as  a  little  empress.  Stretching  out  his  arms, 
he  caught  her,  and  seated  her  on  his  knee — stroking  her 
short,  dancing  curls,  as  he  said,  in  the  playful  tone  one 
might  use  to  a  spoiled  baby  : 

"And  can't  my  little  monkey  make  allowance  for  an 
old  man's  words  ?  You  know  you  were  very  naughty 
and  raibcliievr.'us  that  day,  and  I  had.  cause  to  be  angry 
with  you  ;  and  if  I  said  harsh  things,  it  was  all  for  your 
good,  you  know." 

"Ail  for  my  good  ! — such  stuff  !  I  wish  you'd  put  me 
down.  I'm  a  youn^if  ladv,  I'd  have  you  to  know  ;  and  I 
ain't  going  to  be  used  like  a  baby,  dandled  up  and  down 
without  any  regard  fc-r  my  dignity  !"  said  Gipsy,  with 
so  indignant  an  expression  of  countenance,  that  Archie 
— who,  as  I  before  mentioned,  was  blessed  with  a 
keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous — fell  back,  roaring  with 
laughter. 

"  Now,  Gipsy,  my  lf*ve,  do  be  zeasonable  and  return 
home  with  us,"  said  Lizzie,  impatiently. 

"  I  won't,  then — there  !"  said  Gipsy,  rather  sullenly. 

But  the  tears  rushed  into  Lizzie's  eyes — for  she  really 
was  very  fond  of  the  eccentric  elf — and  in  a  moment 
Gipsy  was  ott  the  squire's  knee,  and  her  arms  round  Liz- 
zie's neck. 

"Wh)'-,  aunty,  did  I  make  you  cry?  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  ! 
Please  don't  cry,  dear,  dear  aunty." 

"  Oh,  Gipsy,  it's  so  selfish  of  you  not  to  return  witL 
us,  when  we  are  so  lonesome  at  home  without  you,'  said 
Liszie,  fairly  sobbing. 

^  Yes ;  and  poor  Mrs.  Gower  will  break  her  heart 


i- 

•if 


■*■>. 


wl 
M 


m% 


",  J"; 


i^: 


d^ 


rt 

lilt 

' '          st 

166 


GIPSY'S    RETURN. 


v^hen  she  hears  about  it — I  know  she  will/  said  Loui^ 
In  a  lachrymose  tone. 

"  And  I'll  break  mine — I  know  I  will !"  add«^d  Archie, 
rubbing  his  knuckles  into  his  eyes,  and  with  some  diffi- 
culty squeezing  out  a  tear. 

•'  And  I'll  blow  niy  stupid  old  brains  out ;  and  after 
thai,  I'll  break  my  heart,  too,"  chimed  in  the  squire,  in  a 
veiy  melancholy  tone  of  voice. 

"Well  I  la  me!  you'll  have  rather  a  smashing  time 
of  it  if  you  all  break  your  hearts.  Whrit'U  you  do  with 
the  pieces,  Guardy  ? — sell  them  for  marbles  ?"  said  Gipsy, 
laughing. 

"There  !  I  knew  you'd  relent  ;  I  said  it.  Oh,  Gipsy, 
my  darling,  I  knew  you  wouldn't  desert  your  '  Guardy '  in 
his  old  age.  I  kne.v  you  wouldn't  let  him  go  down  to  his 
grave  like  a  mistrablc,  consumptive  old  tabby-cat,  with 
no  wicked  little  imp'  to  keep  him  from  stagnating. 
Oil,  Gipsy,  my  dear,  may  Heaven  bless  you  !" 

"Bother  !  I  haven't  '^aid  I'd  go.  Don't  jump  at  con- 
clusions. Before  I'd  be  with  you  a  week  you'd  be  blow- 
ing me  up  sky-high," 

"  But,  Gipsy,  you  know  I  can't  live  without  blowing 
Bomebody  up.  Vou  ought  to  make  allowance  for  an  old 
man's  temper.  It  runs  in  our  family  to  blow  up.  I  had 
an  uncle,  or  something,  thai  was  *  blown  up'  at  tne  battle 
of  Bunker  Hill.  Then  I  always  feel  alter  it  as  amiable 
as  a  cat  when  eating  her  kittens.  *  After  a  storm  there 
Cometh  a  calm,'  as  Solomon  says." 

"  Well,  maybe  there's  smething  in  that,"  said  Gipsy, 
thoughtfully 

"And  you  know, my  love,"  said  Lizzie,  "that, though 
A  little  girl  may  be  a  dancer,  it's  a  dreadful  life  for  a 
young  woman — which  you  will  be  in  two  or  three  years. 
No  one  ever  respects  a  dancing  girl ;  no  gentleman  evcf 
would  marry  you." 


^irsy'S    RETURN. 


167 


}i\ 


|:hie, 
liffi. 

in  a 

time 
rith 
IPsy, 


•*  Wouldn't  they,  though  !"  said  Gipsy,  so  indignantly 
that  Archie  once  more  fell  back,  convulsed.  "If  the) 
wouldn't,  somebody  'd  lose  tlie  smartest,  cleverest,  hand- 
somest young  hidy  on  this  terrestrial  globe,  though  I  say 
it,  as  *  hadn't  ougliler.'  WcJl,  since  you  all  are  goiii;;  tw 
commit  suicide  if  I  don't  jijo  with  you,  I  suppose  old 
Barnes  must  lose  tiic  'bright  particular  star'  of  his  com- 
pany, and  I  must  return  to  St.  Mark's,  to  waste  mj 
sv/eetness  on  the  desert  air." 

This  resolution  was  greeted  with  enthusiastic  J^iigbi 
by  all  present  ;  and  the  night  was  far  advanced  before 
the  squire  could  part  with  his  "  little  vixen,"  and  allow 
her  to  go  to  rest. 

Old  Barnes — as  Gipsy  called  him — was  highly  indig- 
nant at  the  treatment  he  had  received,  and,  going  to  the 
hotel,  began  abusing  Gipsy  and  the  squire,  and  every- 
body else  generally  ;  whereupon  the  squire,  who  nevei 
was  noted  for  his  patience,  took  him  by  the  collar,  and, 
by  a  well-applied  kick,  landed  him  in  the  kennel — a 
pleasant  way  of  settling  disputes  v/hich  he  haa  learned 
while  dealing  with  his  negroes,  but  for  which  an  over- 
particular court  made  him  pay  pretty  high  damages. 

Three  days  after,  Louis  and  Archie  bade  them  fare- 
well, and  entered  college  ;  and  the  squire,  after  a  plea- 
sure-trip of  a  few  weeks,  set  out  for  St.  Mark's. 

In  due  course  of  time  he  arrived  at  that  refugium 
peccatorum  .  and  the  unbounded  delight  wilh  which  Gipsy 
was  hailed  can  never  be  described  by  pen  of  mine. 

Good  Mrs.   Gower  could   scarcely  believe  that  hcs 
darling  was  really  before  her ;  and  it  was  only  when 
listening  to   the   uproar  that  everywhere  followed  the 
footsteps  of   the  said  darling,  that  she  could  be  con 
finced. 

A»  for  Celeste,  not  k^cwing^  whether  to  laugh  or  jn 


i^va 


mm 


ml 


m 

i 


f 


m 

i 

m 

.'hi 


i^    '.ij': 


r^:}^' 


i68 


GIPSY'S    RETURN, 


[■  '*hj 


,1)  ' 


r 


■A   ;•'•! 


with  joy,  she  split  the  difference,  and  did  l>oth.  Evc« 
Miss  Hagar's  grim  face  relaxed  as  Gipsy  c&me  flashing 
into  their  quiet  cotiagc  like  a  March  whirlwind,  throw- 
ing everything  into  such  "admired  disorder,"  that  it  gen- 
erally took  the  quiet  little  housekeeper,  Celeste,  half  a 
day  to  set  things  to  rights  afterward. 

And  now  it  began  to  be  time  to  think  of  completing 
the  education  of  the  two  young  girls.  Minnette  had  left 
for  school  bef(>re  the  return  of  Gipsy,  and  it  became 
necessary  to  send  them  likewise.  Loath  as  the  squire  was 
to  part  with  his  pet,  he  felt  he  must  do  it,  and  urged  Miss 
Hagar  to  allow  Celeste  to  accompany  her. 

"  Gipsy  will  defend  her  from  the  malice  of  Minnette, 
and  the  two  girls  will  be  company  for  each  other,"  said 
the  old  man  to  the  spinster.  "Girls  must  know  how  to 
chatter  French,  and  bang  on  a  piano,  and  make  worsted 
cats  and  dogs,  and  all  si>r/i  f  So  let  little  Snowdrop,  here, 
go  with  my  m(3nkey,  and  I'll  foot  the  bill." 

Miss  Hagar  consented  ;  and  a  month  after  found  our 
little  rustic  lasses — our  fair  "Star  of  the  Valley  "  and 
our  mountain  fairy,  moving  in  the  new  world  of  board* 
isf  •echool. 


III 


11 

I 


ARCHIK 


i<f 


mg 

>w- 

len- 

f  a 


CHAPTER   XVIIi 


AK,^^rllE» 


mg 
left 


"  His  youthful  form  was  middle  lis*, 
For  feat  of  strength  or  exercise 

Shaped  in  proportion  fair  ; 
And  dark-blue  was  his  eagle  eye, 
And  auburn  of  the  darkest  dye 

His  slu)it  and  curling  hair. 
Light  was  hi5  footstep  in  the  dance, 

And  firm  his  stirrup  in  the  lists, 
And  oh  !  he  had  that  merry  glance 
That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists." — SooTT, 

IVE  years  passed.  And  the  children,  Gipsj 
and  Celeste,  we  can  never  see  more  ;  for  those 
five  years  have  changed  them  into  young 
ladies  of  seventeen.  Strange  to  say,  neitlier 
Louis  nor  Arcliie  has  met  Minnette,  Gipsy,  or 
Celeste,  since  the  time  they  parted  to  go  to  college  :  and 
with  all  the  change  that  years  have  made  in  their  appear- 
ance, it  is  doubtful  whether  they  would  even  recognize 
one  another  now,  if  they  mc't. 

The  wav  of  it  was  this  :  Louis  and  Archie,  after  the 
life  and  excitement  of  the  city,  began  to  think  that  Sun- 
set Hall  was  an  insufferably  dull  place  ;  and  With  the 
usual  fickleness  of  youth,  instead  of  going  home  to  spx^nd 
their  vacation,  invariably  went  with  some  of  their  school- 
fellows. This  troubled  the  old  squire  very  little  ;  for 
without  Gipsy,  in  the  quiet  of  Sunset  Hall,  he  was  fall- 
ing into  a  state  of  stupid  apathy,  and  gave  Master  Louis 
carte  blanche  to  go  where  he  pleased.  Lizzie  was  too  in- 
dolent to  trouble  herself  much  about  it.  and  as  she  gen- 
erally went  on  a  visit  to  New  York  c^ery  winter,  she  con- 
tented herself  with  seeing  her  ton  and  heir  then,  and 


pit; 


K  ,1 


170 


ARCHIE. 


•iii^  ^ 


!< 


M 


% 


kr^winp  Ut  vas  we!l.  As  for  Gipiy  and  CcJ#t*A  '.h«!r 
faiiixie  .  jo;  over;,  seemed  to  have  quite  on tfro wp  their 
rari y  ;.s^ii-:  ion  for  them. 

Tli  :i,  w''  n  th^  time  came  for  them  to  graduate,  and 
make  chtice  oi  a  profession,  Squire  Erlioton  found  that 
young  Mr.  Oranmore  would  neither  be  doctor,  lawyer, 
nor  clergyman  ;  nor  even  accept  a  post  in  the  army  or 
navy, 

"  Why  not,"  said  the  squire,  dr.ring  an  interview  he 
had  with  him  ;  *'  what's  your  objection?" 

"  Why,  my  dear  grandfather,"  replied  Louis,  **  you 
should  have  too  much  regard  for  your  suffering  fellow- 
mortals  to  make  a  doctor  of  me.  As  for  beinc^  a  lawyer, 
1  haven't  rase,  ity  enouo^h  for  that  yet;  and  Tve  too 
much  respect  for  the  church  tc  take  holy  orders.  Neither 
does  the  camp  nor  fo.recaf.tlc  agree  with  me.  I  have  no 
particular  love  for  forced  marches  or  wholesale  slaugh- 
ter ;  nor  do  I  care  over  much  for  stale  biscuit,  bilge- 
water,  and  the  cat-o'-nine-tails  ;  so  I  must  e'en  decline 
all." 

"  Then  what  in  the  name  of  Heaven  «/i//yoube?"  cx- 
Liairaed  the  squire. 

"  An  artist,  sir  ;  an  artist.  Heaven  has  destined  me 
for  a  painter.  I  feel  something  within  me  that  tells  me  I 
will  yet  win  fame  and  renown.  Let  me  go  to  Europe — 
to  Germany  and  Italy,  and  study  the  works  of  the  glo- 
rious old  masters,  and  I  will  yet  win  a  nftme  you  will  not 
ftlush  to  hear." 

"  Glorious  old  fiddlesticks  !  Go,  if  you  like,  bat  I 
never  expected  to  find  a  grandson  of  mine  such  a  fool  ! 
The  heir  of  Mount  Sunset  and  its  broad  lands,  the  iieir 
of  Oranmore  Hall,  and  old  Mother  Oranmore's  yellow 
guineas,  ran  do  as  he  pleases,  of  course.  Go  and  waste 
your  tinir  daubing  canvas  if  you  will,  I'll  be  hanged  if  / 


ARCHIE, 


l« 


eir 


fer, 
or 

he 


Therefore,  six  raoiuhs  before  the  return  jf  the  girli 
from  school,  Louis,  accompanied  by  a  friend,  sailed  for 
Europe  vvitlnajt  seeing  them. 

"  And  you,  sir,"  said  the  squire,  turning  to  Ai  chic  , 
"artjou  going  tc  be  a  tool  and  turn  painter,  too  ?" 

*•  No,  sir,"  replied  Master  An      »  :  "  I'm  not  going  to 
be  a  fool,  but  I'm  going  to  be  S(.i:i3t>    ig  worse — a  knave  ; 
in  other  v/ords,  a  lawyer.     A.  Um  ^aiming,  thank  for 
tune,  I've  no  more  talent  foi    l  iK  ,n  I  have  for  turning 
milliner,  bcyotid  painting  my  tac  i  when  acting  charades." 

So  Archie  went  to  VVasI  /r  n,  and  began  studying 
for  tile  bar. 

Gipsy,  who  was  a  universal  favorite  in  school,  began, 
for  the  last  few  years,  to  copy  the  example  of  the  boys, 
and  spend  her  vacations  with  her  friends.  Minnette  and 
Celeste  always  returned  home  ;  for  Minnette,  cold,  and 
reserved,  and  proud,  was  disliked  and  feared  by  all  ;  and 
though  Celeste  was  beloved  by  everybody,  duty  and  af- 
fection forbade  her  to  leave  Miss  Hagar  for  her  own 
pleasure. 

Our  madcap  friend,  Gipsy,  had  lost  none  of  her  wicked 
nor  mischief-loving  propensities  during  those  years. 
Such  a  pest  and  a  plague  as  she  was  in  the  school,  driv- 
ing teachers  and  pupils  to  their  wits'  end  with  her  mad 
pranks,  and  yet  liked  so  well.  There  was  usually  a 
downright  quarrel,  about  the  time  of  the  holidays,  to  sec 
^ho  would  possess  her  ;  and  Gipsy,  after  looking  on 
and  enjoying  the  fun,  would,  to  the  surprise  andchagric 
of  all,  go  with  some  one  who  least  hoped  for  the  honor. 

Gipsy  was  spending  the  winter  with  a  school  friend, 
Jennie  Moore,  at  Washington.  The  three  girls,  whose 
united  fortunes  are  the  subject  of  this  history,  ha*^  grad- 
uated ;  Minnette,  with  the  hii'^hest  honors  the  school 
could  give  ;  Celeste,  with  fewer  laurels,  but  with  far  more 
love  ;  and  Gipsy — alas,  that  I  should  haye  to  saj  it  ?— > 


'11 


-<  '1 


fi 


I  •' 


\im 


h'U 


ii-'f 


[■"I  i** 


!♦> 


ml 


m 


h' 


rja 


tRCfTTR 


\ 


i 


I 


most  wofully  behind  all.  The  restless  jlt  ttMr  i  oot 
study — was  always  at  the  foot  of  her  class,  anc  only 
laughed  at  the  grave  lectures  of  the  teachers  ;  and  yawned 
horribly  over  the  rules  of  syntax,  and  the  trying  names 
iu.  her  botany.  So  poor  Gipsy  left  little  better  than  when 
she  entered. 


The  folding-doors  of  Mr.  Moore's  spacious  drawing- 
room  werp  thrown  open,  blazing  with  light  and  radiant 
w'th  brilliantly-dressed  Indies.  Mi«s  Jennie  had  resolved 
tlia:  the  first  ball  should  surpass  anything  that  had  taken 
place  that  winter.  All  ihc  <•///<?  of  the  city,  wealth,  beauty, 
tashion,  gallantry,  and  tulent,  were  mingled  in  gay  con- 
fusion. There  were  soft  rusiiing  of  silks,  and  waving  of 
perfumed  handkerchiefs,  and  flirting  of  fans,  and  tlirting 
of  belies  ;  and  brii^ht  ladies  ca<?t  killingglanres  from  their 
brilliant  eyes;  and  gentlemen  bowed  and  smiled,  and 
paid  complitnents,  and  talked  all  sorts  of  aonscQse,  ai.d 

"  All  went  merry  as  a  mmrriage  bell." 

Near  the  upper  end  of  the  room  the  belle,  par  excel- 
Uncty  seemed  to  be  ;  for  in  her  train  flowed  all  that  were 
wittiest,  and  gayest,  and  loveliest  there.  Whenever  she 
moved,  a  throng  of  admirers  followed  ;  and  where  the 
laughter  was  loudest,  the  mirth  highest,  the  crowd 
greatest,  there  might  you  find  the  center  of  attraction, 
this  belle  of  whom  1  am  speaking. 

And  yet  she  was  not  beautiful  ;  at  least,  not  beautiful 
when  compared  with  many  there  who  were  neglected  for 
her.  She  is  floating  now  in  a  gay  waltz  round  the  room 
with  a  distinguished  foreigner,  and  '*  I  will  paint  her  as 
I  see  her." 

A  small,  slight,  straight,  lithe  figure,  airj  and  bird- 
like  in  its  motions,  skimming  over  the  floor  wiUiout 


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jeeming  to  touch  it ;  n«;ver  ai  rest ;  but  quiCK,  ludden, 
abrupt,  and  startling  in  all  its  motions,  yet  every  motioB 
instinct,  glowing  with  liic.  A  dark,  bright,  laughing 
little  face,  that  no  one  knows  whether  it  is  handsome  or 
not,  it  is  so  radiant,  so  bewitching,  so  sparkling,  so  full 
of  overflowing  mirth  and  mischief.  Short,  crisp  black 
curls,  adorning  the  sauciest  little  head  in  the  world  ; 
wicked  brown  eyes,  fairly  twink'' ig  with  wickedness;  a 
rosy  little  mouth,  that  seemed  always  laughing  to  display 
the  little  pearly  teeth.  Such  was  the  star  of  the  evening. 
Reader,  do  you  recognize  her  ? 

As  she  seated  herself  after  the  dance,  tired  and  a  little 
fatigued,  Jennie  Moore,  a  pretty,  graceful  girl,  came  up 
to  her,  saying,  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Oh,  Gipsy,  I  have  a  stranger  to  introduce  to  you — 
a  most  distinguished  one.  One  of  the  cleverest  and  most 
talented  young  lawyers  in  Washington." 

"Distinguished  !  Now,  I'm  tired  to  death  of  *  distin- 
guished' people  ;  they're  all  a  set  of  bores — ugly  as  sin 
and  pedantic  as  schoolmasters.  Don't  stare — it's  a 
fact !" 

"  Oh,  but  Mr.  Rivers  is  not ;  he  is  young,  handsome, 
agreeable,  witty,  a  regular  lady-killer,  and  worth  nobody 
knows  how  much." 

"  Mr. — worth  what  ?"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  springing  to 
her  feet  so  impulsively  that  her  friend  started  back. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?"  said  Jennie  m  surprise. 

"Nothing!  nothing!"  said  Gipsy,  hastily.  **lV/ut 
did  you  say  it  was  ?" 

"Mr.  Archibald  Rivers,  student-at-law." 

"  Jennie,  they  say  I've  changed  greatly  of  late.     Do 
you  think  I  look  anything  like  I  did  when  you  first  saw 
me?" 
_   *'  W&y,  not  much.     You  ^ere  a  tawnj  little  fright 


I, 
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then  ;  you're  almost  handsome  now,"  laid  the  can  jtd 
Jennie. 

"Then  he  won't  know  me.  Jennie,  will  you  oblif:;^e 
by  introducing  Mr.  Rivers  to  me  under  an  assumed 
name  ?" 

"  Why •• 

"Tiieic!  there!  don't  ask  questions  ;  I'll  tell  bj  and 
by.     Go  and  do  it." 

"  Well,  you  have  always  some  new  crotchet  in  youi 
crotchety  httie  iiead,"  said  Jennie,  as  she  started  iu 
obey. 

In  a  (e\v  niomcnih  she  reappeared,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  the  "distinguished"  Mr.  Rivers.  Our  Archie 
has  n(it  ciiaiv^cd  as  much  as  Gipsy  has  done  during 
these  years,  sve  that  he  has  grown  taller  and  more 
manly-looking.  He  has  still  his  frank,  handsome,  boy- 
ish face  ;  his  merry  blue  eye  and  boisterous  manner,  a 
litiU  subdued. 

The  indistinct  tone  in  which  Miss  Moore  introduced 
him  prevented  hitn  from  catching  the  name,  but  he 
scarcely  obicrvcd  ;  and  seeing  in  the  young  lady,  whose 
lips  were  now  pursed  up  and  whose  eyes  were  cast  mod- 
estly on  the  floor,  a  shrinking,  bashful  girl,  he  charita- 
bly began  to  draw  her  out. 

"  There  is  quite  an  assembly  here  this  evening/*  wa« 
his  original  remark,  by  way  of  encouraging  her. 

"Ves,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  tone  slightly  tr emu > 
lous,  which  h^  ascribed  to  maiden  bashfulness. 

<'  What  a  delightful  young  lady  your  friend,  Misa 
Moore,  is,"  continued  Archie. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

**  There  are  a  great  many  beautiful  ladies  in  the 
room.*' 

"  Yes,  sir." 

*<  Confound  her  I"  muttered  Archie,   ''can  the  my 


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nothing  but  'Yex,  sir  f  But  the  most  be&utifal  lady 
present  is  by  my  side,"  he  continued,  aloud,  to  see  how 
she  would  swallow  so  palpable  a  dose  of  flattery. 

'  Yes,  sir  r 

"  Whew  !  if  that's  not  cool !  I  wonder  if  the  girl's 
An  idiot !"  thought  Master  Archie.  Then,  aloud  :  *'  Do 
yo\i  know  you're  very  beautiful?" 

"  Yes.     I  know  it." 

A  stare  of  surprise  followed  this  answer.  Then  he 
continued  : 

"  Vou  are  a  most  bewitching  young  lady  I  Never 
was  so  much  charmed  by  anybody  in  my  life  1" 

"Sorry  I  can't  return  the  compliment.*' 

"  Hallo  !"  thought  Archie,  rather  taken  aback.  '  She's 
not  such  .'1  fool  as  I  took  her  to  be.  What  do  you  think 
of  that  lady !"  he  added,  pointing  to  a  handsome  but 
dark-complexioned  girl,  whom  report  said  would  one 
day  be  Mrs  Rivers. 

*'  Oh !  I  don't  think  her  pretty  at  all — she's  such  a 

Archie  gave  a  little  start  at  the  name.  Poor  Gipsy  I 
he  had  quite  forgotten  her  of  late. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  ''  I  once  had  a  little  friend 
called  Gipsy  ?  Your  words  recalled  her  to  my  memory. 
Vou  remind  me  of  her,  somehow,  only  you  are  hand- 
iimer.     She  was  dark  and  ugly." 

"  Indeed  I     Did  you  like  her  ?" 

"Ye-e-e-s — a  little,"  said  Archie,  hesitaticgly ;  "she 
ivas  a  half-crazy  little  thing — bliik  as  a  sqm  w,  and  1 
ion't  think  I  was  very  fond  of  h^r^  but  che  was  very  fond 
of  me." 

"  Indeed,  sir  !"  said  the  young  lady,  a  momentary 
8ash  gleaming  from  her  dark  eyes  ;  "she must  have  bees 
t  bold  girl,  rather,  to  let  you  know  it' 


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ARCHIE. 


"She  was  bold — the  boldest  gi-x  sver  I  knew,  wi^ 
nothing  gentle  aiid  womanly  ab'jut  her  whatever." 

"  What  (iiil  yi>u  ^ay  her  name  was  ?" 

"Gipsy — Gipsy  Gower.  Vou  seem  interested  in  her." 

"  I  am,  sir — I  kn<nv   her." 

"  You  doV*  cried  Archie,  aghast. 

"Yes,  sir  ;  but  I  like  her  no  more  than  you  do.  Shf 
was  a  rough,  uiicuiiih  savage,  detested  by  every  one  who 
knew  her.  I  had  the  misfortune  to  be  her  room-mp»^«^  'n 
school,  and  she  i!sed  to  bore  me  dreadfully  t«.lking about 
her  gawky  conn  try  friends,  particularly  some  one  whom 
she  oalh'd  Archif." 

"  Yes  ?  What  used  she  to  say  about  him  ?  She  liked 
him,  didn't  she?"  said  Archie,  eagerly. 

"  Why,  no  ;  1  should  say  not.  She  used  to  say  he  was 
a  regular  fool — always  laughing.  She  iaid  she  never 
knew  such  a  greeny  In  all  her  life." 

Mr.  Rivers  buduonly  wilted  down,  and  hadn't  a  word 
to  say.  .Tust  at  that  moment  a  party  of  Gipsy's  friends 
came  along,  and  it  was  : 

"  Oh,  Gipsy  !  Gipsy  I  Oh,  Miss  Gower  !  we've  been 
searching  all  over  for  you.  Everybody's  dying  of  the 
blues,  because  you  iire  absent.     Do  come  with  us  !" 

Archie  leaped  from  his  seat  as  though  hs  had  received 
a  bayonet  thrust.  Gipsy  rose,  saying,  in  a  low,  sarcastic 
voice,  as  she  passed  him  : 

"  Remeiiiber  nie  tu  Gipsy  when  you  see  her.  Tell 
her  what  I  said  about  Archie,"  aad  she  was  gone. 

During   the   remainder  of  the  evening   the  "dist^t. 
guished  "   Mr.  Ri\'ers  looked  about  as  crestfallen  as  v. 
young  lawyer  pi>ssessed  of  a  large  stock  of  native  impa 
dence   could    well   do.     There    he   stood   and    watche(i 
Gipsy,  who  had  never  been  so  ma^etic,  so  bewitching 
•o  entrancing  in  her  life  before.    Never  by  chance  did 


AlfCH/n, 


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ihe  look  at  him     but  tiiore  was  scarcely  auother  niascu 
line  head  in  the  :ooni  she  had  not  turned. 

"  Confound  the  little  witcii !"  muttered  Master  Archie, 
'  no  wonder  she  called  rue  a  fool  !  But  who  the  deuce 
would  ever  think  uf  finding  little  Gipsy  Gower  in  one 
-^f  the  belles  of  Washington  ?  Had  it  been  Celeste,  now, 
i  shciild  not  have  felt  surprised.  And  who  would  evei 
think  that  yonder  daz/linn^,  brilliant,  magnetic  girl  was 
♦  he  little  shy  maiden  who,  ten  minutes  ago,  sat  beside 
mc  with  her  demure  'yeSy  sir  !'  Well,  she  seems  to  be  en- 
joying herself  anyway.  So,  Miss  Gipsy,  I'll  follow  your 
example  and  do  the  same." 

For  the  remainder  of  the  evening  Archie  threw  him- 
self into  the  gay  throng  with  the  evident  determination 
of  enjoying  himself  or  dying  in  the  attempt.  And  more 
than  one  fair  cheek  flushed,  and  more  than  one  pair  of 
bright  eyes  grew  bi  igiiter,  as  their  owner  listened  with 
downcast  lashes  and  smiling  lips  to  the  gallant  vvords  of 
the  handsotue  voung  lawver.  He  was,  if  not  the  hand- 
somest,  at  least  otu  of  the  handsomest,  men  in  the  room  ; 
and 

*'  Oh  !  he  had  that  merry  glance, 
That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists  ^ 


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And  eclipsed  belles  raised  their  graceful  heads  in 
triumph  to  ilnd  the  bewildering  Gipsy  had  no  power 
over  him.  But  if  tliey  had  known  all,  they  would  have 
found  that  those  "  merry  glances"  were  noi  for  them, 
but  tj  pique  the  jealousy  of  the  evening  star. 

Ere  the  company  dispersed  he  sought  out  Gipsy,  who 
withdrawing  herself  from  the  revelers,  stood,  silent  tad 
ftlone,  by  the  window. 

"Gipsy  I"  he  said,  gcntiv. 

"  Mr.  Rivers  !"  she  said,  drawing  herself  up. 

**  Forgive  me,  Gipsy,  for  what  I  Mud.** 


«K.   I  T> 


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ARCHIE. 


''  I  Iiave  nothing  to  forgive  !  '  rather  think  i^e  are 
quit.i !"  replied  Gipsy,  coolly. 

"  Well,  make  up  friends  with  uie,  and  be  a  little  like 
the  Gipsy  I  used  to  know." 

"  VVhat  !  like  i!iat  black  little  squaw — that  bold, 
jgly,  half-crazy  tliinc^^?     Von  astonish  me,  Mr.  Rivers  1" 

"Ves,  even  so,  Gijosy  ;  you  know  it's  all  true;  and 
I'll  be  the  same  *  rvgidar  fool,  always  laughing.'  Thc;i 
shake  hands  and  call  nic  Archie,  as  you  used  to." 

"  Well,  now,  I  don't  know,"  said  Gipsy — "I  don  t 
think  1  ought  to  forgive  you." 

"  Don't  iliink  about  it,  then,  Nonsense,  Gipsy — you 
know  you're  to  be  my  little  wife !" 

Slie  laughed  and  extended  her  hand,  though  her  dark 
cheek  grew  crimson. 

"  Well,  there,  I  forgive  you,  Archie.  Will  that  do  ? 
And  now  let  us  go  into  tlie  supper-room,  for  I'm  starving. 
One  of  my  early  habits  I  have  not  outgrown — and  that  is, 
a  most  alarming  appetite." 

**  Now  I  shall  have  her  all  to  myself  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening,"  thought  Archie,  as  he  stood  beside  her,  and 
watched  triumphantly  the  many  savage  and  ferocious 
glances  cast  toward  him  by  tiie  gentlemen. 

But  Archie  found  himself  slightly  mistaken  ;  for 
Gipsy,  five  minutes  later,  told  him  to  be  off — that  he  was 
an  old  bore,  and  not  half  as  agreeable  as  the  most  stupid 
of  her  bcaus.  Then  laughing  at  his  mortified  face,  she 
danced  and  flirted  unuiercifuUy,  leaving  Mr.  Rivers  to 
think  she  was  the  most  capricious  elf  that  ever  tormented 
A  young  lawyer. 

Every  day  for  a  week  after  he  was  a  coEStant  visitor 
at  Mr.  Moore's.  And  every  day  for  a  week  he  went 
awiy  as  be  came,  without  seeing  Gipsy.  She  was  al- 
ways out  riding,  or  driving,  or  "  not  at  home,"  though 
he  could  see  her  plainly  laughing  at  him  at  the  window. 


ARCfflJL 


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The  willful  fairy  seemed  to  take  a  nnalicious  delight  la 
teasing  the  life  out  of  poor  Archie.  Evening  after  even 
ing  she  accepted  the  escort  of  a  handsome  young  Eng- 
lish baronet,  Sir  George  Stuart,  the  most  devoted  of  all 
her  lovers — leaving  Archie  to  bear  it  as  he  pleased.  A\id 
between  jealousy,  and  rage,  and  mortification,  and 
wounded  pride,  Mr.  Rivers  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  It  was 
too  bad  to  see  his  own  little  Gipsy — his  girlish  lady-love 
— taken  from  him  this  way  without  being  able  to  say  a 
word  against  it. 

So  Archie  fell  a  prey  to  "  green  and  yellow  melan- 
choly," and  never  saw  the  stately  young  nobleman  with- 
out feeling  a  demoniacal  desire  to  blow  his  brains  out , 
and  nothing  prevented  him  froui  doing  it  but  the  be- 
coming respect  he  had  for  the  laws  of  his  country. 

One  morning,  however,  for  a  wonder,  he  had  the  good 
fortune  to  find  Gipsy  alone  in  the  parlor,  looking  pcr- 
fectlv  charming  in  her  becoming  deshabille. 

**  How  did  you  enjoy  yourself  last  night  at  Mrs. 
Greer's  ball  ?  I  saw  you  there  with  that  fool  of  a  baro- 
net,'' said  Archie,  rather  savagely. 

"I  enjoyed  myself  very  well,  as  I  always  do.  And  I 
must  beg  of  you  not  to  speak  of  Sir  George  in  that  way, 
Mr.  Rivers.     I  won't  allow  it." 

"Oh,  vou  won't!"  sneered  Archie.  "You  seem  to 
think  a  great  deal  of  him.  Miss  Gower." 

"  Why,  of  .oume  I  do  !  He's  so  handsome — so  per 
fect.y  gentlemanlike — so  agreeable,  and  so—everything 
else.     He's  a  real  love  of  a  man." 

"Oh  !  the  deuce  take  him  !" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Rivers  !"  said  Gipsy,  with  a  very  shocked 
expression  of  countenance. 

"  Gipsy,  be  serious  for  once.  I  hare  had  something  to 
i&y  to  you  this  long  time,  but  vou  >^ave  been  so  precioui 


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careful  to  keep  out  of  my  sight,  I've  had  no  duuiM  to  lAj^ 
it     Gipsy,  do  yon  ioir  Sir  George  Stuart  ?" 

"  Why,  Arcllie  !  to  be  sure  1  do." 

"  Oh-h-h  !"  groaned  Archie. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?— got  the  toothache  T* 

*'  Oh,  dear,  no.     i  have  the  heart-ache  !*' 

'*  Sorry  to  hear  it.  Better  go  to  Deep  Dale  and  con* 
■ult  Doctor  Spider  about  it." 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  ?" 

"I've  no  objection.  I'm  going  home  to-mOiTow, 
and  I'd  just  as  lief  have  you  for  an  escort  as  any  one 
else." 

"  Then  you  are  not  going  to  be  married  to  Sir  George 
Stuart,  Gipsy  ?"  exclaimed  Archie,  eagerly. 

**  Why,  not  just  now,  I  think." 

"  Gipsy,  would  you  marry  me  ?"  ' 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  mind,  if  nobody  better  offers." 

"  Oh.  Gipsy  !  be  serious  ;  don't  laugh  at  me  now. 
You  know  you  promised,  wlien  a  little  girl,  to  be  my 
little  wife.     Will  you,  dear  Gipsy?" 

"  There — gracious  me  !  you're  treading  on  Sambo's 
toes." 

A  howl  from  au  unfortunate  black  pug  dog  testified 
to  the  truth  of  this  remark. 

"Men  are  such  awkward  creatures!  Poor  Sambo! 
4id  he  hur'  you  ?"  said  'jipsy,  stooping  and  caressing 
X\in  ugly  li'.'le  brute. 

"  Oh,  saints  and  angels !  only  hear  her  She  will 
drive  mc  mad — I  know  she  will.  Here  I  offer  her  my 
hctf.rt,  and  hand.  ;uid  fortune  (though  I  don't  happen  to 
have  iucli  a  thing  about  me),  and  she  begins  talking 
about  Sambo*s  toes.  That  girl  will  be  the  death  of  me, 
Acd  when  I  die  Til  charge  them  to  place  on  my  tomb- 
•taue,  *  Died  from  an  overdose  of  a  coquette.'  " 

And  Ma.ster  Archie  stamped  up  and  down,  and  flung 


ARCHIE. 


Ill 


his  coat-tails  aboul  with  an  utterly  distracted  expression 
of  countenai.ee. 

"  Why,  wl.at  nonsense  are  you  going  on  with  there  F' 
inquired  Gipsy,  pausincjin  her  task  of  comforting  Sam- 
bo^ and  loukin>^  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  Nonsense  !"  exclaimed  Archie,  pausing  before  her, 
and  throwing  himself  into  a  tragic  attitude.  "  Infatuated 
girl !  the  heart  you  now  cast  from  you  will  haunx  you  in 
the  dead  hours  \>f  the  nigfit,  when  everything  (but  the 
mosquitf^es)  is  s]ce[>ing  ;  ii  will  be  ever  before  you  in 
your  English  home,  when  you  are  the  bride  of  Sir  George 
(confound  him  !)  Stuart  ,  it  will " 

But  Master  Archie  could  proceed  no  further  ;  for 
Gipsy  fell  back  in  herciiair,  lairly  screaming  with  laugh- 
ter. Archie  made  a  desperate  effort  to  maintain  hi-* 
gravity,  but  the  elTort.  proved  a  failure,  and  he  was  forced 
to  join  Gipsy  in  an  uproarious  peal. 

*' Oh,  dear  !"  said  Gipsy,  wiping  her  eyes,  '*  i  dr.u't 
know  when  1  have  lauirhed  so  much." 

*'Yes,"  said  Archie,  in  high  d  geon — "pretiy  thing 
to  laugh  at,  too  !  After  break  ^  my  heart,  to  begin 
grinning  aboul  it.     Humph!" 

"  Vou  looked  so  funny — you    ooked ** 

Gipsy's  voice  was  lost  in  an<     ler  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Come,  now,  Gipsy,  likt  .  ^ood  girl,  don'  laugh 
any  more  ;  but  tell  me,  ivill  you  marry  me — will  you  bo 
my  wife  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  you  dear  old  goose,  you !  \  never  in- 
tended to  be  anythitig  else.  You  might  have  known 
that  I'd  be  your  wife,  without  making'  such  a  fiiss  about 
it,"  said  Gipsy. 

•*  And  Sir  George,  Gipsy  ?" 

**  Oh,  poor  fellow,  I  gave  him  his  coup  de  cong*  UuU 
B%ht,  and  he  set  out  for  England  this  morning." 


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G/I'SY'S    DARING, 


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•s 

"  Oh,  Gipsy,  my  clear,  you're  a  jicarl  without  price  V 

exclaimed  Archie,  in  ji  rupture. 

"Glad  to  hear  ii,  I'm  sure.  And  now  dif  go  away 
Archie,  ami  (l-ui'l  bother  me  any  longer  ;  fori  must  pack 
irp  my  things  an<l  "Start  for  home  to-morrow." 

"  Vou  little  tyrant  !  Well,  I  am  to  accompany  you, 
Hind." 

"  Just  as  you  please — only  t/a  leave  me." 

"Little  termagant !  Accept  this  ring  as  a  betrothal 
gift" 

"  Well,  there — put  it  on,  and  for  goodness'  sake  clcai 

DUt." 

With   a  glance  of   comical  despair,  Mr.  Rivers  took 

aiA  hat  and  quitted  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


GIPSY  S   DARINO. 

"  It  ,3  a  fearful  night ;  a  feeble  glare 
Streams  from  th«  sick  moon  in  the  overclouded  tky. 
The  ridfcy  billows,  with  a  miw:hty  cry, 

Rush  on  the  foamy  beaches  -vilJ  and  bare. 

What  hark  the  madness  of  the  waves  will  dare  T 

— Bt«cji. 


I  *  '  *■    s     \    ^ 


■slIPSV  was  once  more  at  Sunset  Hall.  Archie 
had  escorted  her  home  and  th«n  returned  to 
Wasiuri^ion.  He  would  have  mentioned 
their  eniraLrement  to  the  squire,  and  asked  his 
consent  to  their  union,  but  Gipsy  said: 
^  No.  voM  mustn't.     I  hate  a  fuss :  and  as  I  don't  in*- 


e/J'Sys    DASING. 


I«J 


lend  to  be  married  for  two  or  three  years  yst,  .t  will  be 
time  enough  to  tell  them  all  by  and  by." 

So  Archie,  with  a  sigh,  war,  forced  to  obey  his  capri- 
cir.us  little  love  and  go  back,  after  making  her  promise 
to  let  him  come  down  every  month  and  see  her ;  for  she 
wouldn't  write  to  him — it  was  ''too  much  bother." 

It  began  again  to  seem  like  old  times  at  St.  Mark's. 
There  was  Gipsy  at  Sunset  Hall,  keeping  them  all  from 
iying  of  torpor,  and  astonishing  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood by  her  mad  freaks.  There  was  Minnette — the 
pioud,  cold,  but  now  beautiful  Minnette — living  alone 
at  Deep  Dale  ;  for  the  doctor  had  gone  from  home  on 
busmess.  There  was  sw  t  Celeste,  the  Star  of  the  Val- 
ley, in  her  little  cottage  home — the  fairest,  loveliest 
maiden  the  sun  ever  shone  upon. 

It  >\?vs  a  lovely  May  morning.  The  air  was  made 
jociina  vvith  tiic  songs  of  birds  ;  the  balmy  breeze  scarce 
r\\)\  id  the  surface  of  the  bay,  where  the  sunshine  fell  in 

1  hroii'^h  the  open  doors  and  windows  of  Valley  Cot- 
rage  liie  urighi  May  sunbeams  fell  warm  and  bright  • 
they 'ingerovl  in  broad  patches  on  the  white  floor,  and 
touched  genLly  the  iron-gray  locks  of  Miss  Hagar,  us  she 
*.at  knitting  in  her  leathern  chair  in  the  chimney-corner 
i:;  lipriglit  auvi  gray  as  ever.  Years  seemed  to  pass  ol 
'.viiJiouf  touchn.g  her;  for  just  as  we  first  saw  her  at 
i^izy.ie  (Jranmoit's  bridal,  the  same  does  she  appear  to- 


olaVy  . 


In  the  doorwo-y  stands  a  young  girl,  tall  and  grace- 
ful, dresied  in  soft  gray  muslin,  fastened  at  her  slendei 
waist  by  a  gold-coiured  belt.  Can  this  young  lady  be 
our  liitlf!  shy  Celeste?  \l-,  here  is  the  s^me  superb 
form,  the  ^ame  dainty  little  head,  with  its  wealth  of  paic- 
j,]^ni<l  hair  ;  the  same  citar,  transparent  complex'on  ;  the 
Koft,  dove  like  eyes  ol  blue  ;  the  broad,  white  ^ueenly 


ii*' 


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GIPSY'S    DARING. 


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forehead ;  the  little,  rosy,  smiling  mouth.  Yet,  it  l« 
Celeste — celestial,  truly,  with  the  promise  of  her  child* 
hood  more  liian  fulfilled.  The  world  and  its  liattereri 
—and  she  ha.>  hoard  many — have  had  no  power  to  spoil 
her  pure  licart,  and  she  has  returned  the  same  gentle, 
'  :)ving  Celc.-sie  — the  idol  of  all  who  know  her,  radiating 
ight  and  beauty  wlicrever  she  goes,  a  very  angel  ol 
charily  to  the  poor,  and  beloved  and  cherished  by  tlio 
rich.  MorD  hearts  than  Celeste  likes  to  think  of  have 
been  laid  at  her  feet,  to  be  i^ently  and  firmly,  but  sadly, 
refused  ,  fur  that  sound,  unsullied  heart  has  never  yet 
been  stirred  by  the  words  of  man. 

She  sto'»d  in  the  doorway,  gazing  with  parted  lips 
a^d  sparklitig  eyes  on  the  balmy  beauty  of  that  bright 
spring  morning,  with  a  hymn  of  gratitude  and  love  to 
the  Author  of  all  this  beauty  filling  her  mind. 

Suddenly  the  sylvan  silence  of  the  spot  was  broken 
by  the  thunder  of  horse's  hoofs,  and  the  next  instant 
Gipsy  came  bounding  along  upon  the  back  of  her  favor* 
;tc  Mignonne. 

"Good-morning,  dear  Gipsy,"  said  Celeste,  with  hei 
own  bright  smile,  as  :?ne  hastened  to  open  the  gate  for  her. 
*•  Have  you  been  oiil   ^.s  usual,  'lunting  this  morning  V 

"  Ves,  and  die/*^  ye  the  spoils,"  said  Gipsy,  thro'ving 
a  well  fiUcu  ganie-b».g  on  the  ground.  "  I  come  like  a 
crue  hunter — r»  lf>pl  knight  of  the  gay  greenwood — to 
lay  them  at  th*^  '"e'^t  of  my  liege  lady.  I  fancied  a  can- 
vas-back ut'.ok  'ind  a  bright-winged  partridge  would  not 
come  auvss  rhis  morning.  I  know  my  gallop  has  made 
me  perfe«"t)y  ravenous." 

*'  Vou  shall  have  one  of  them  presently  for  break« 
fast,"  said  Celeste,  calling  Curly,  their  little  black  maii' 
cf  all-W(     ;.     "  Tie  Mignon.ie  there,  and  come  in." 

"  By  ihc  way,  Celeste,  you  don't  seem  to  think  it  such 
»Q  apps        ;  act  to  shoot  birds  now  as  you  us«d  to,"  said 


G/J'SY'S    DAXIIfG. 


><S 


lips 


Gipsy,  springing  from  her  horse ;  "  it  was  once  a  crime  ^f 

.be  first  m;ignitn(le  in  your  eyes." 

"And  I  confess  it  seems  a  needless  piece  of  cruelty 
to  me  still  I  could  scarcely  do  it  if  I  were  starving,  1 
.hink." 

"  You  always  were — with  reverence  be  it  spoken — 
rather  a  reward  Celestt:.  Do  you  remember  the  day  I 
shot  the  bird  ti.at  f.ouis  saved  for  you,  and  you  fell 
fainting  to  the  ground  ?"  said  Gipsy,  laughing  at  the  re- 
membrance. 

"  Yes,  1  remember.  I  was  rather  an  absurd  little 
thing  in  those  days,"  said  Celeste,  smiling.  "  How  I  iiid 
love  that  unlucky  little  bird  !" 

"  Oh  !  that  was  because  Louis  gave  it  to  you.  There  ! 
don't  blush.  Apropos  of  Louis,  I  wonder  where  he  is 
now?" 

"  In  Rome,  I  suppose  ;  at  least  Mrs.  Oranmore  told 
me  so,"  replied  Celeste. 

"  Yes  •  when  last  we  heard  from  him  he  was  study- 
ing the  old  masters,  as  he  calls  them — or  the  old  gran 
nies,  as  Guardy  calls  them.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he 
became  quite  famous  yet,  and — oh.  Celeste !  where  did 
you  get  that  pretty  chain  and  cross?"  abruptly  asked 
Gipsy,  as  her  eye  iell  on  the  trinket 

"  A  present,"  said  Celeste,  smiling  and  blushing. 

Gipsy's  keen  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face  with  so 
quizaiical  an  expression,  that  the  rose-hue  deepened  to 
crimson  on  her  fair  cheek  as  they  passed  into  the  house. 
And  Gipsy  vent  up  and  shook  hands  with  Miss  Hagar, 
and  seated  herself  on  a  low  stool  at  her  feet,  to  relate 
the  morning's  adventures,  while  Celeste  laid  the  cloth 
and  set  the  table  for  breakfast. 

After  breakfast  Gipsy  rode  off  in  the  direction  of 
Deep  Dale.  On  entering  the  [«rior  the  found  Mm- 
nette  sitting  readinfp 


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Minnette — now  n  tall,  splendidly  developed,  womanlj 
girl,  with  the  prnud.  handsome  face  of  her  childhood — 
rose  and  welcomod  h«T  truest  with  cold  courtesy.  Tht 
old,  fiery  liglit  inrkr.-rl  ,tin  in  her  black  eyes;  bnt  the 
world  had  loarncil  her  ti»  subdue  it,  and  acoldly-polite  re- 
serve had  taken  ihc  place  of  the  violent  outburst  of  pas 
sion  so  coiniiiuii  in  iic-r  tempestuous  childhood. 

"Don't  voii  find  it  horriblv  dull  here,  Minnette?" 
said  Gipsy,  swallowing  a  rising  yawn. 

"No,"  re[)lio(l  Minnette  ;  "1  prefer  solitude.  There 
are  few — /;<?//<',  j)ci!iaps — who  sympathize  witn  me,  and 
in  books  I  find  companions." 

**  Well,  I  prclcr  less  silent  companions,  for  my  part," 
said  Gipsy.  "  1  don't  believe  in  making  an  old  hermit 
or  bookworm  (-f  myself  for  anybody." 

"  Everv  une  to  her  taste,"  was  the  f  uid  rejoinder. 
"When  do  you  expcci  your  father  home?"  inquired 
Gipsy. 

"To-nijr|,t." 

"  Then  he'll  have  a  storm  to  herald  his  coming,"  said 
Gipsy,  goincr  i<.  the  window  and  scanning  the  heavens 
with  a  practiced  eye. 

"A  storm — impossible!"  said  Minnette.  "There  ia 
not  a  cloud  in  tlie  tky.' 

'•  Neverl!Ic!c^s.  we  shall  have  a  storm,"  said  Gipsy. 
"I  read  the  sUy  ai  t.'uly  as  you  do  your  books;  and 
if  he  attempts  to  enter  the  bay  to-night,  I'm  inclined 
to  think  thru  the  fir^t  land  he  makes  will  be  the  bot* 
torn." 

M lunette  iicard  this  intelligence  with  he  utmost  cool- 
UC3S,  sayin<^  (uily  : 

'*  I:)<.let:tl  !     I  did  not  know  you  were  such  a  judge  of 
the  weather.     Well,   prob.ibly,  wnen  they  see  the  storm 
conning,  they  will  put  into  some  place  until  it  is  over." 
"  If  they  don't,  1  wouldn't  give  much  for  their  chane« 


G/PSVS    DARItrO. 


t»t 


ol  life,"  said  Gipsy,  as  she  arose  to  go  ;  "but  djn't  worry, 

Miniieile— all  may  be  rii^lit  yet." 

Minncltc  looked  after  her  with  a  scornful  smi'e. 
Fret!  She  iiad  little  intention  of  doing  it;  ani  five 
•nintitcs  alter  the  departiir*?  of  Gipsy  she  was  so  deeply 
/jimcrscd  in  her  :;Jok  as  t  )  forget  everything  else. 

As  the  day  w(jre  on  and  evening  approached,  Gipsy's 
prophecy  seemed  about  to  prove  true.  Dark,  leaden 
clouds  rolled  about  the  sky  ;  the  wind  no  longer  blew 
in  a  steady  breeze,  but  howled  in  wild  gusts.  The  bosom 
of  the  bay  was  los.siji!^  and  (n<rining  wildly,  heaving  and 
pluui^iug  as  though  struj^gling  madly  in  agony.  Gipsy 
seizeii  her  teler.coue,  and  running  up  to  one  of  the  high- 
est rooms  u  the  old  hall,  swept  an  anxious  glance  across 
the  trouble :l  face  of  the  <leep.  Far  out,  scarcely  distin- 
guishable from  ifje  white  caps  of  the  billows,  she  beheld 
the  sail  of  a  vessel  driving,  with  frightful  rapidity,  to- 
ward the  coast — driving  toward  its  own  doom  ;  for,  once 
near  those  foaming  breakers  covering  the  sunken  reefs 
of  rocks,  iu>  human  being  could  save  her.  Gipsy  stood 
gazing  like  one  fascinated  ;  and  onward  still  the  doomed 
bark  drove — like  a  lost  soul  rushing  to  its  own  destruc- 
tion. 

Night  and  darkness  at  last  shut  out  the  ill-fated  ship 
from  her  view.  Leaving  the  house,  she  hastily  made  her 
w£iy  to  the  shore  ?".;'.  standing  en  2  high,  piojecting 
;^eak,  waited  for  the  moon  :  o  rise,  to  view  the  scene  01 
'em pest  and  d^'.uh 

I'  lifted  its  V,  II ,  .z',:x\-:S.  far;  at  last  from  behind  a 
bank  of  dull,  black  clouds,  and  lit  up  with  its  ghastly 
light  the  heaving  sea  and  driving  vessel.  The  tcrjpest 
seemed  momentarily  increasing.  The  waves  boiled,  and 
•cethcd,  and  foamed,  and  lashed  themselves  in  fuiy 
against  the  beetling  rocks.  And,  holding  by  a  project- 
ing cliff,  Gipsy  st<  Dd  surveying  the  scene.     You  might 


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WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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have  thought  her  the  s[)irit  of  the  storm,  looking  on  tht 
tempest  she  had  herself  raised.  Her  black  hair  and  thin 
dress  streamed  in  the  wind  behind  her,  as  s/ie  stood  lead- 
ing forward,  her  .ittle,  wild,  dark  face  looking  strange 
and  weird,  with  Its  blazing  eyes,  and  cheeks  burning 
with  the  mad  excitement  of  the  scene.  Down  below  her, 
on  the  shore,  a  crowd  of  hardy  fishermen  were  gathered, 
watching  with  straining  eyes  the  gallant  craft  that  in  a 
few  moments  would  be  a  broken  ruin.  On  the  deck  could 
be  plainly  seen  the  crew,  making  most  superhuman  ex  • 
ertions  to  save  themselves  from  the  terrible  fate  impend 
ing  over  them. 

All  in  vain  !  Ten  minutes  more  and  they  would  be 
dashed  to  pieces.  Gipsy  could  endure  the  maddening 
sight  no  longer.  Leaping  from  the  cliff,  she  sprang  down 
the  rocks,  like  a  mountain  kid,  and  landed  among  the 
fishermen,  who  were  too  much  accustomed  to  see  her 
among  them  in  scenes  like  this  to  be  much  startled  by 
it  now. 

'*  Will  you  let  them  perish  before  your  eyes  ?"  she 
cried,  wildly,  "  Are  you  men,  to  stand  here  idle  in  a 
time  like  this  ?   But  with  the  boats,  and  save  their  lives  !* 

"Impossible,  Miss  Gipsy!"  answered  half  a  dozen 
voices.     "  No  boat  could  live  in  such  a  surf." 

"  Oh,  great  heaven  !  And  must  they  die  miserably 
before  your  very  eyes,  without  even  making  an  effort  to 
save  tliem  ?"  she  exclaimed,  passionately,  wringing  her 
hands.  "  Oh,  that  I  were  a  man  !  Listen  .  Whoevc; 
will  make  the  attempt  shall  receive  five  hundred  doUaii. 
reward  !" 

Not  one  moved  Life  could  not  be  sacrificed  fot 
money. 

"  There  she  gees  !'  cried  a  voice. 

Gipsy  turned  to  look.  A  wild,  prolonged  shriek  of 
mortal  agony  rose  above  the  uproar  of  the  storm,  and 


erfSY's  BAttmo. 


tU 


the  crew  were  left  struggling  for  life  in  the  bcilitig 
waves. 

With  a  piercing  cry,  scarcely  I'ess  anguished  than 
tneir  own,  tlic  mad  girl  bounded  to  the  shore,  pushed  ofi 
R  light  batteauy  seized  the  oars,  and  the  next  moment  was 
dancing  over  the  foaming  waves. 

A  shout  of  fear  and  horror  arose  from  the  shore  at 
the  daring  act.  She  lieeded  it  not,  as,  bending  all  her 
energies  to  the  task  of  guiding  her  frail  bark  through 
the  tempestuous  billows,  she  bent  her  whole  strength  to 
the  oars. 

Oh  !  surely  her  guardian  angel  steered  that  boat  on 
its  errand  of  mercy  through  the  heaving,  tempest-tossea 
sea  !  The  salt  spray  seemed  blinding  her  as  it  dashed 
in  her  face  ;  but  on  i'he  flew,  now  balanced  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  top  of  a  snowy  hill  of  foam,  the  next,  sunk 
down,  down,  as  thougii  it  were  never  more  to  rise. 

"  Leap  into  the  boar.  !"  she  cried,  in  a  clear,  shrill 
voice,  that  made  itself  heard,  even  above  the  storm. 

Strong  hands  clutched  it  with  the  desperation  ol 
death,  and  two  heavy  bodies  rolled  violently  in.  The 
weight  nearly  overset  the  light  skiff  ;  but,  bending  her 
body  to  the  oars,  she  righted  it  again. 

*'  Where  are  the  rest  ?"  she  exclaimed,  wildly. 

"  All  gone  to  tlie  bottom.  Give  me  the  oars  I"  cried 
a  voice. 

She  felt  herself  lifted  from  where  she  sat,  placed 
gently  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  then  all  conscious- 
ness left  her,  and,  overcome  by  the  excitement,  she 
fainted  where  sJie  lay. 

When  she  again  opened  her  eyes  she  was  lying  in  the 
arms  of  some  one  on  the  shore,  with  a  circle  of  troubled 
anxious  faces  around  her.     She  sprang  up  wildly. 

^  Are  they  saved  ?"  she  exclaimed,  looking  around. 


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G/PSY'S    DARING, 


"Yes;  thanks  to  your  heroism,  our  Tfcs    are  pie 

served,"  said  a  voice  beside  Iier. 

She  turned  hastily  round.  It  was  Doctor  Nicholas 
Wisenmn.  Another  form  lay  stark  and  rigid  on  the 
sand^  with  men  bending  over  him. 

A  deadly  sickness  came  over  Gipsy — she  knew  not 
why  it  was.  She  turned  away,  with  a  violent  shudder 
from  his  outstretched  hand,  and  bent  over  the  still  form 
on  the  sand.  Ali  made  way  for  her  with  respectful 
deference  ;  and  she  knelt  beside  him  and  looked  in  his 
face.  He  was  a  boy — a  mere  youth,  but  singularly  hand- 
some, with  a  look  of  deep  repos«  on  his  almost  beauti- 
ful face. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  of  piercing  an- 
guish. 

"  No  ;  only  stunned,"  said  the  doctor,  coming  over 
and  feeling  his  pulse. 

"  Take  iiim  to  Sunset  Hall,  then,"  said  Gipsy,  turn- 
ing to  some  of  the  men  standing  by. 

A  shutter  was  procured,  and  the  senseless  form  oi 
the  lad  placed  upon  it,  and,  raising  it  on  their  shoulders, 
they  bore  him  in  the  direction  of  the  old  mansion-house. 

Doctor  Wiseman  went  toward  his  own  home.     And 
Gipsy,  the  free  mountain    maid,  leaped   up  the  rocks, 
feeling,  for  the  first  time  in   her  life,  sick  and  giddy 
Oh  !  better,  far  better  for  her  had  they  but  periibed  is 
the  seething  waves ! 


« 


THE    SAILOR    BOY*S    DOOM. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


«•» 


THE   SAILOR    BOY  S   DOCM. 


'        'v 


'•  With  gentle  hand  and  soothing  tongnt 
She  bore  the  leech's  part  ; 
And  while  she  o'er  his  sick  bed  hung 
He  paid  her  with  his  heart." — ScoTT. 

HE  sunshine  of  a  breezy  June  moriiing  fell 
pleasantly  into  the  chamber  of  the  invalid. 
It  was  a  bright,  airy  room — a  perfect  paradise 
of  a  sick  chamber — with  its  snowy  curtained 
bed,  its  tempting  easy-chair,  its  white  lace 
window  curtains  fluttering  softly  in  the  morning  air 
The  odor  of  flowers  came  wafted  through  the  ofjen  case- 
ment ,  and  the  merry  chirping  of  a  bright- winged  canary, 
hanging  in  the  sunshine,  filled  the  room  with  its  cheer 
ful  music. 

Reclining  in  the  easy-chair,  gazing  longingly  out  at 
the  glorious  sunshine,  sat  the  young  sailor  whose  life 
•  Gipsy  had  saved.  His  heavy  dark  hair  fell  in  shining 
waves  over  his  pale,  intelligent  brow  ;  and  his  large  blue 
eyes  had  a  1  jok  of  dreamy  melancholy  that  few  female 
beans  could  have  resisted 

Suddenly  his  eye  lighted  up,  and  h'f  Tvhole  face 
brightened,  as  a  clear,  sweet  voice,  singing  a  gay  carol, 
met  his  ear.  Gipsy  still  retained  her  old  habit  of  singing 
fiii  she  walked  ;  jhhI  the  next  moment  the  door  opened, 
and  she  stood,  like  some  bright  vision,  before  him,  with 
cheeks  glowing,  eyes  sparkling,  and  her  countenance 
bright  and  radiant  from  her  morning  ride  •  her  dark 
parp'e  riding-habit  setting  off  to  the  best  advantage  her 
straight,  slight,  rounded  form;  and  her  jaunty  riding- 


»Ai 


'V,l- 


ii 


>'3 


s- i 


'rt  '  t 


M 

ii  ■ 

'  \ 

1 

Ii 


(ft 


rjsrar  sa/zor  bovs  doom. 


i? 


hat,  with  its  lofio\  swcf^pincc,  sable  plume,  gfirln^  her  th« 
sir  of  a  young  inovintTiri  queen,  crowned  with  vitality,^ 
aad  sccptcred  witli  life  and  beauty. 

"Oh,  I  li.'ive  ha.l  such  a  charming  canter  over  the  hilU 
■jiis  moraini^,"  she  cried,  wif.ii  her  wild,  breezy  laugh. 
'  W  :a\  I  wished  you  had  been  well  enough  to  accompany 
frje.  Mignonnc  fairly  Hew,  leaping  over  yawning  chasms 
and  rocks  as  t.ho',if';h  he  felt  not  the  ground  beneath  him. 
But  I  am  forgetting  —how  do  you  feel  this  morning?" 

"  Much  better,  sweet,  lady.  Who  could  be  long  ill 
with  such  a  nurs-i  .'"  he  replied,  whiie  his  fine  eyes  lit  up 
with  admiratio~i  and  gratitude. 

Gipsy,  be  ^t  known,  had  installed  herself  as  the  nurse 
of  the  yount-;  sailor  ;  and,  by  her  sleepless  care  and 
tender  nuTjing,  iiad  almost  restored  him  from  death  to 
life.  iVnd  .vhen  he  became  convalescent,  she  would  sit 
by  his  beJside  for  houts,  reading,  talking,  and  singing 
forhir.i,  until  gratitude  on  his  part  ripened  into  fervent 
love:  while  she  only  looked  upou  him  as  she  would  on 
any  o'.her  stranger — taking  an  interest  in  him  only  on 
acc:<ant  of  his  youth  and  friendliness,  and  because  she 
had  saved  his  iiic. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  I'm  sure  !  I  want  you  to 
hurry  and  get  well,  so  you  can  ride  out  with  me.  Are 
fj'i  a  good  horseman  .'" 

'Yes,  I  think  so,"  he  said,  smiling. 

*'  Because,  if  you're  not,  you  mustn't  attempt  to  try 
:j  ,ir  hills.  It  takes  an  expert  rider,  I  can  tell  you,  to 
^■iliop  over  them  without  breaking  his  neck." 

"Yet>'(97/  venture,  fairest  lady." 

''Me?     Ha,  ha!     Why,  I've  been  on  horseback  ever 
since  I  was  two  years  old.     My  horse  is  my  other  self.     I 
could  as  soon  think  of  living;  without  laughiDg  as  with 
out  Mignonne." 


Uj 


THE    SAILOR     BOY  S    DOOM 


m 


:  her  the 
vitality, 

thehillr} 
'    laugh. 

J  chasms 
ath  him. 
ing?" 
long  ill 
es  lit  up 

he  nurse 
;are  and 
death  to 
Guid  sit 
singing 
) fervent 
vrould  on 
only  on 
;ause  she 

It  you  to 
ne.     Are 


3t  to  try 
I  you,  to 


ack  ever 

r  self.     I 

as  with 


Its 


"  Then,  sweet  lady,  you  will  kindly  be  my  teacher  In 
the  art  of  riding." 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  want  better  fun  ;  but  look  here,  Mr. 
Danvers,  don't  be  '  sweet  lady'-ing  me  !  I  ain't  used  to 
it,  you  know.  People  generally  call  me  Monkey,' 
'Imp,'  'Torment,'  'Wretch,'  and  other  pet  names  of  a 
like  nature.  But  if  you  don't  like  any  of  them,  call  me 
Gipsy,  or  Gipsy  Gower,  but  don't  call  me  *  sweet  lady' 
again.     You  see,  I  never  could  stand  nicknames." 

"And  may  I  ask  you  why  you  have  received  those 
names  ?"  inquired  the  young  midshipman  (for  such  he 
was),  laughing. 

"  Why,  because  I  am  an  imp,  a  wretch,  and  always 
was — and  always  will  be,  for  that  matter.  I  believe  I 
was  made  to  keep  the  world  alive.  Why,  everybody  in 
St.  Mark's  would  be  dead  of  the  blues  if  it  weren't  for 
me. 

"  Yes ;  I  have  heard  of  some  of  your  wild  antics. 
That  good  old  lady,  Mrs.  Gower,  was  with  me  last  night, 
and  we  had  quite  a  long  conversation  about  you,  I  assure 
you." 

"  Poor  dear  aunty,  she's  at  her  wii's*  end,  sometimes, 
to  know  what  to  do  with  me.  And,  by  that  same  token, 
here  she  comes.  Speak  of  somebody,  and  he'll  appear, 
you  know." 

Mrs,  Gower  opened  the  door,  flushed  and  palpitating 
with  her  walk  up-stairs.  Poor  Mrs.  Gower  was  "wax- 
ing fat"  with  years ;  and  it  was  no  easy  task  for  her  to 
toil  her  way  up  the  long  staircase  of  Sunset  Hail. 

"Oh,  Gipsy,  my  dear  !"  she  exclaimed,  all  in  a  glow 
of  pleasurable  excitement,  "guess  who's  come  I" 

"  Who,  who  ?"  cried  Gipsy,  eagerly. 

«'  Archie  !" 

Up  sprang  Gipsy,  flew  past  Mrs.  Gower,  and 
iawJEk  the  stairs  in  a  twinkling. 


if 


■■■'••ill 


i^i 


;  ii 


: 


.t     y 
i 


"0 

a'  'Vi' 


?  ■■']     I  5 

mil  I 


If4 


THE    SAILOR     BOY'S    DOOM. 


I  1  5  '. 


m\ 


m^ 


'M 


"Archie  !  who  the  deuce  :s  he?"  thought  the  fOtiBg 
midshipman,  with  a  jealous  twinge. 

"  You  seem  to  have  brought  Miss  Gower  pleasant 
news,"  he  remarked,  by  way  of  drawing  her  out,  after  he 
he  had  answered  her  inquiries  about  his  health. 

"  Why,  yes,  it's  natural  she  should  be  glad  to  meet 
her  old  playmate,"  replied  the  unsuspecting  old  lady. 

"  Ah  !  her  old  playmate.  Then  she  has  known  him 
for  a  long  time?" 

"  Yes ;  they  were  children  together,  grew  up  together, 
and  were  always  fond  of  one  another.  It  has  always  been 
my  dearest  wish  to  see  them  united ;  and  I  dare  say  they 
V  ni  be  yet." 

The  youth's  face  was  turned  to  the  window  as  she 
•poke,  or  good  Mrs.  Gower  might  have  been  startled  by 
his  paleness.  As  he  asked  no  more  questions,  the  worthy 
old  lady  began  to  think  he  might  wish  to  be  left  to  himself ; 
so,  after  a  few  general  directions  to  be  sure  and  take 
care  of  himself  and  not  catch  cold,  she  quitted  the 
room. 

Meantime,  Archie  and  Gipsy  were  holding  a  very  ani- 
mated conversation  in  the  parlor  below.  Archie  was 
relating  how  h«  had  undertaken  a  very  important  case, 
that  would  call  him  from  home  for  four  or  five  months ; 
and  that,  when  it  was  over,  he  would  be  rich  enough  to 
set  up  an  establishment  for  himself,  and  return  to  Sl 
Mark's  to  claim  his  little  bride. 

"And  now,  Gipsy,"  he  concluded,  "what  mischiei 
hare  you  been  perpetrating  since  I  saw  you  last? 
Who  have  you  locked  up,  or  shot,  or  ran  away  with 
since  Y* 

In  reply,  Gipsy  related  the  story  of  the  wreck,  and 
went  into  ecstasies  on  tha  beauty  of  Mr.  Hany  Danyers, 
U.  S.  N.    Archie  listened  with  a  sayage  frown,  that 


II 


is: 


THE    SAILOR    BOYS    DOOM, 


X9S 


grew  pofceptibl)'  more  savaj^e  every  moment.  Gipsy 
saw  It,  and  maliciously  praised  him  n^ore  and  more. 

•'  Oh,  Archie,  he's  the  handsomest  fellow  I  ever  met 
3o  agreeable  and  polite,  with  such  a  beautiful,  melan- 
hnly  countenance  !" 

"Oh,  curse  his  melancholy  countenance  !" 

*'  F'or  shame,  sir  !  How  can  you  speak  so  of  my 
riends  ?  But  it's  just  like  you.  You  always  were  a 
cross,  disagreeable  old  thini:; — now  then  !" 

''  Yes  ;  I'm  not  such  a  sweet  seraph  as  this  agreeable 
and  pclite  young  son  of  Neptune,"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  with 
a  witheiing  sneer.  "  Just  let  me  catch  sight  of  his  *  beau- 
tiful, melancholy  countenance,'  and  maybe  I'll  spoil  its 
beauty  for  him." 

"Now,  Archie,  you're  real  hateful.  I'm  sure  you'll 
like  him  when  you  see  him." 

"  Like  him  !     Yes,  I'd  like  to  blow  his  brains  out." 

"  No,  you  mustn't,  either ;  he's  too  handsome  to  bo 
killed.  Oh,  Archie,  when  he  laughs  he  looks  so  charm- 
ing !" 

"  Confound  him  !  /'//  make  him  laugh  on  the  other 
side  of  his  mouth  !"  growled  the  exasperated  Archie. 

"  He's  got  such  a  sweet  mouth  and  such  lovely  white 
teeth  !"  continued  the  tantalizing  fairy. 

"  I  wish  he  and  his  white  teeth  were  at  the  bottom  of 
the  Red  Sea  !"  burst  out  Archie,  in  a  rage. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Rivers,  you're  positively  jealous  !"  said 
flipsy,  looking  very  much  surprised  indeed. 

"Jealous  !  Yes,  I  should  think  so.  You  are  enough 
to  drive  any  one  jealous.  Suppose  T  began  raving  about 
yoang  ladies — their  *  melancholy  countenances,'  and 
'sweet  mouths,' and  'white  teeth,'  and  all  such  stuff — 
how  would  you  like  it,  I  want  to  know?" 

"  Why,  I  shouldn't  care." 

'' Yqu  wouldn't  ?    Oh,  Jupiter  Olympui ;    Onlj 


fi 

f  1 


!i' 

t 

!  ■  ' 

ii'i 

'■' 

I 

I 

■  , 

• 

•J  ■• 


m 


196 


TIfB    SA:L0R    BOY'S    DOOM, 


I 


*,• 


\\\ 


thntr  exclaimed  Archie,  striding  up  and  down  11.  a  low 
erinfl;-  pussion.     '"  Tiuit    sliovvs   all    you   care  about   me\ 
Going  and   lalliiig  in  love  with  the   Srsi  eld  tarry  5:;viloi 

you  meet  !     I  won't  endure  it !     I'll  olow  niy  brains    >nJ 

—I'll 

"  WeL,  don't  do  it  in  the  house,  then.  Pistols  uiaW 
a  noise,  nnd  nnght  disturb  Mr.  Danvers." 

Arcliio  fell  into  a  chair  with  a  deep  groan. 

"  There,  don't  look  so  dismal.  I  declare,  you  give  nit 
a  fit  of  the  bhies  every  time  you  come  to  see  me.  Why 
can't  you  be  pleasant,  and  laugh?" 

"  I>augh  !"  exchiimed  poor  Archie. 

"  Yes,  laui^h!  I'm  sure  you  used  to  be  forever  grin- 
ning.    Poor,  dc;ir  Air   Danvers  is  sick,  yet  he  laughs." 

"  Mr.  Danvers  again  !"  shouted  Archie,  springing  to 
his  feet,  *'  May  Lucifer  twist  Mr.  Danvers'  neck  for 
him  !  I  won't  stay  another  minute  in  the  house.  I'll 
clear  out,  and  never  see  you  more.  I'll  never  enter  your 
presence  again,  you  heartless  girl !" 

"  Well,  won't  you  take  a  cup  of  coffee  before  you 
go  ?"  said  Gipsy,  with  her  sweetest  smile. 

"Hallo,  Jupiter!  Jupiter,  1  say,  bring  round  my 
horse.  And  now,  most  faithless  of  women,  I  leave  you 
forever.  Life  is  now  a  blank  to  me ;  and,  ere  yonder 
sun  sets,  I  shall  be  in  eternity," 

'Is  it  possible?  Won't  you  write  when  you  get 
there,  and  let  me  know  if  it's  a  good  p'ace  for  lawyers 
to  settle  in  ?" 

Oh !  such  a  groan  as  followed  this !  Casting  a 
tragical  look  of  despair  at  Gipsy,  who  sat  smiling  serene- 
ly, Archie  rushed  from  the  house. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  back  again.  Gipsy  had 
stretched  herself  on  a  sofa,  and  was  apparently  fast 
asleep 


,!« 


THE    SAILOR    BOY'S    DOOM, 


»fr 


rever  grin- 


"Heartless  girl!"  exclaimed  ArchiS)  shaking  ;.er; 
«wake  up,  Gipsy  !" 

"Oli!  is  it  you?"  said  Gipsy,  drowsily  opening;  her 
eyes.  "  What  did  you  wake  me  up  for  ?  I  thought  you 
had  started  on  your  journey  to  eternity.** 

"Gipsy,  shall   I  go?" 

"Just  as  you  please,  Archie — only  let  me  go  to  sleep, 
and  don't  bother  me." 

"  Oh,  Gipsy  ! — you  cruel  coquette !  won*t  you  bid  me 
stay  ?" 

"  Well,  stay^  then  !  I  wish  to  goodness  you  wouldn*t 
be  such  a  pest." 

"Gipsy,  tell  me — do  you  love  me  or  Mr.  Danvert 
best?" 

"  I  don't  love  either  of  you — there,  now  !  And  I  tell 
you  what,  Archie  Rivers,  if  you  don't  go  ofif  and  let  mo 
get  asleep,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again.     Mind  that !" 

With  a  deep  sigh,  Archie  obeyed,  and  walked  out  of 
the  room  with  a  most  dejected  expression  of  counte- 
nance. No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  Gipsy  sprang  up, 
and,  clapping  her  hands,  danced  round  the  room — her 
eyes  sparkling  with  delight. 

"Oh,  it's  such  fun!"  she  exclaimed.  "Poor,  dear 
Archie  ! — if  I  haven't  made  him  a  victim  to  the  'green- 
eyed  monster!'  Mr.  Danvers,  indeed!  As  if  that  dear, 
goodnatured  Archie  wasn't  worth  all  the  Mr.  Danvers 
that  ever  adorned  the  quarterdeck  1  Ob  I  won*t  I  flirt, 
though,  and  make  the  'distinguished  Mr.  Rivers'  so 
jealous,  that  he  won't  know  whether  he's  standing  on  his 
head  or  his  heels  !  If  I  am  to  settle  down  into  a  hum- 
dnim  Mrs.  Rivers  some  day,  I'll  have  as  much  frolic  as 
I  can  before  it.  So,  Master  Archie,  look  out  for  the 
wrath  that's  to  come ;'  for  your  agonies  won't  move 
me  in  the  least  " 

And  never  did  any  one  keep  her  word  m4ire  faithfullj 


t  'I 


i 


•ni 

'M 


'iT'->i 


i;  .*;" 


198 


THE    SAILOR    BOY*S    DOOM. 


m 


'f  • 
A  1 


■',i\ 


'  >} 


f  •• 


than  Gipsy.  During  the  fortnight  that  Archie  was  ta 
stay  with  them  she  flirted  unmercifully  with  the  hand> 
some  younj^  midshiptiuin,  who  was  now  able  to  ride  out, 
quite  unconscious  of  ill  the  hopes  she  was  rousing  in 
his  bo;3om.  Poor  G  ipsy  !  little  did  she  dream  that, 
while  she  rode  by  liis  side,  and  bestowed  upon  him  her 
enchanting  smiles,  and  wore  the  colors  he  liked,  anc* 
sang  the  songs  he  hn-ed,  to  torment  the  unhappy  Archie 
that  he,  believing  her  serious,  had  already  surrendered 
his  heart  to  thft  bewitching  sprite,  and  reposed  in  the 
blissful  dream  »)f  one  day  calling  her  his  I 

Archie  Rivers  7c>as  jealous.  Many  were  the  ferocious 
glances  he  cast  upon  the  young  sailor  ;  and  many  and 
dire  were  his  threats  of  vengeance.  But  Gipsy,  mad 
girl,  only  lis^ter  ed  and  laughed,  and  knew  not  that  an- 
§ther  pair  of  ea's  heard  those  threats,  and  would  one  day 
use  them  to  her  destruction. 

But  matten  were  now  drawing  to  a  crisis.  The 
young  midshipman  was  now  quite  restored  to  health, 
and  found  himself  obliged  to  turn  his  thoughts  toward 
his  own  home.  Archie's  fortnight  had  elapsed  ;  but  still 
he  lingered — too  jealous  to  leave  while  his  rival  re- 
mained. 

One  bright  moonlight  night  the  three  were  gathered 
in  the  cool,  wide  porch  in  front  of  the  mansion.  Gipsy 
stood  in  the  doorway — her  white  dress  fluttering  in  the 
breeze — binding  in  her  dark,  glossy  curls  a  wreath  of 
crimson  rosebuds,  given  her  a  few  moments  previous  by 
Mr.  Dan  vers.  All  her  smiles,  and  words,  and  glances 
wei  e  directed  toward  him.  Archio  was  apparently  for- 
l^otten. 

^'  Please  sing  one  of  your  charming  songs,  Miss 
Gipsy  \  this  is  just  the  hour  for  music,"  said  Mr.  Dan- 
vers. 

With  pleasure     What  shall  t  be?— -your  fftTorite  ?" 


M 


T' 


THE    SAILOR    BOY'S    DOOM, 


>ff 


fnquired  Gipsy,  taking  her  guitar  and  seating  herself  aft 
tiis  feet. 

"  If  you  will  be  so  good,"  he  replied,  his  eyes  spark- 
ling with  pleasure  at  her  evident  preference. 

Archie's  brow  grew  dark.  He  hated  the  sailor's  fav- 
orite song,  because  it  was  his  favorite.  This  Gipsy  well 
knew  ;  and  her  brown  eyes  twinkled  with  mischief^  as 
she  began,  in  her  clear,  sweet  voice  : 

•'  *  Sleeping,  I  dream,  love — I  dream,  love,  of  the*) 
O'er  the  bright  waves,  love,  tloating  with  thee  ; 
Light  in  thy  soft  hair  played  the  soft  wind, 
Fondly  thy  white  arms  around  me  were  twined ; 
And  as  thy  sung,  love,  swelled  o'er  the  sea, 
Fondly  thy  blue  eyes  beamed  love,  on  me.'  ** 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  looked  up  in  his  fare, 
as  though  really  intending  the  words  for  him.  He  was 
bending  over  her,  pale  and  panting — his  blue  eyes  blaz- 
ing with  a  light  that  brought  the  crimson  blood  in  a 
rosy  tide  to  her  very  temples.     She  stopped  abruptly. 

*  Go  on  !"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  hesitated,  glanced  at  Archie,  and  seeing  the 
storm-cloud  on  his  brow,  the  demon  of  mischief  once 
mor^  conquered  her  better  nature,  and  she  resumed  : 

"  *  Soon  o'er  the  bright  waves  howled  forth  the  gale, 
Fiercely  the  lightningf  flashed  on  our  sail  \ 
And  as  our  frail  bark  drove  through  the  sea. 
Thine  eyes,  like  loadstones,  beamed,  love,  on 
Oh,  heart,  awaken  I — wrecked  on  lone  shore, 
Thou  art  forsaken  ! — dream,  heart,  no  more.' " 


j^^i^ 


•r.'. 


. .  ...  .''1 


1. 1  - 


Ere  the  last  words  were  uttered,  Archie  had  seized 
his  hat  and  rushed  from  the  house  ;  and  Danvers,  for- 
getting everything  save  the  entrancing  creature  at  his 
feet,  clasped  her  suddenly  in  his  arms,  aad  pafisionately 
exclaimed : 


iffiF'  7^ 


i     \t 


■',) 


t     ■     '< 


THE    SAILOR    BOY'S     DOOM, 


**  Oh,  Gipsy  !  my  love  !  m}  life,  my  beauthul  mjuiii 
tain  sprite  ! — can  you,  will  you  love  me  ?" 

With  a  wild,  sharp  cry  of  terror  and  anger,  she  broke 
from  his  arins,  and  sprang  back,  with  flashing  eyes. 

**  Back,  sir,  viack  ! — I  command  you  !  How  dare  you 
attempt  such  a  liberty  with  me?" 

How  beautiful  she  looked  in  her  wrath,  with  her 
blazing  eyes,  and  crimson  cheeks,  and  straight  little 
form  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  in  surprise  and  indig- 
nation. 

He  stood  gazing  at  her  for  a  moment — amazed, 
thunder-struck  at  the  change.  Then,  seeing  only  her 
enchanting  beauty,  he  took  a  step  forward,  threw  him- 
self at  her  feet,  and  broke  forth  passionately  : 

"  Gipsy,  I  love  you — I  worship  you.  Have  you  been 
mocking  me  all  this  time  ? — or  do  you  love  me,  too  ?" 

"  Rise,  sir  I  I  have  neither  been  mocking  you,  nor  do 
I  love  you  !     Rise  !  rise  !     Kneel  not  to  me  !" 

"And  I  have  been  deceived?  Oh,  falsest  of  false 
ones  !  why  did  you  learn  me  to  love  you  ?" 

"Mr.  Danvers,  don't  call  me  names.  As  to  the  learn- 
ing you  to  love  wif,  I  never  attempted  such  a  thing  in  my 
life  !  I'd  scorn  to  do  it,"  she  said,  indignantly  ;  but  even 
while  sbs  spoke,  the  blood  rushed  in  a  fiery  torrent  to 
her  face,  and  then  back  to  her  heart,  for  she  thought  of 
*dl  the  encouragement  her  merciless  flirtation  must  have 
^^i\eu  him. 

"  Ycu  did,  Gipsy,  you  know  you  did  T  he  vehemently 
exclained.  "  Every  encouragement  that  could  be  given 
to  a  lover  you  gave  to  me  ;  and  I — fool  that  I  was — I 
belie'^ed  you,  never  dreaming  that  I  should  find  a  flinty, 
hardened  flirt  in  one  whom  I  took  to  be  a  pure-hearted 
mountain  maiden." 

Had  Gipsy  felt  herself  innocent  of  the  charge,  how 
indigfnantly  she  would  have  denied  it.     But  the  con- 


THR    SAILOR    £OY*S    DOOM. 


flOI 


iciousness  of  guilt  sent   -he  crimson  oDce  mere  to  her 
brow,  as  she  replied  in  a  low,  hurried  tone  : 

'  Mr.  Danvers,  I  have  done  wrong  !  Forgive  me  ! 
As  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  dreamed  not  that  you  cared 
for  me.  It  was  my  mad,  wild  love  of  mischief  brought 
all  this  about.  Mr,  Danvers,  it  is  as  yet  a  secret,  but  Mr. 
Rivers  is  my  betrotiied  husband.  Some  fiend  prompted 
me  to  make  him  jealous,  and  to  accomplish  that  end  I — I 
blush  to  say  it — flirted  with  you  ;  alas,  never  dreaming 
you  thought  anything  of  it.  And  now  that  I  have  ac- 
knowledged my  fault,  will  you  forgive  me,  and — be  my 
friend  ?" 

She  extended  her  hand.  He  smiled  bitterly,  and 
passed  her  without  touching  it.  Then  leaving  the  house, 
he  mounted  his  horse  and  galloped  furiously  away. 
Prophetic,  indeed,  were  the  words  with  which  her  song 
had  ended — words  that  came  pealing  through  the  dim 
aisles  of  the  forest  after  him,  as  he  plunged  frantically 
along : 

"  Oh,  heart,  awaken  ! — wrecked  on  lone  shore. 
Thou  art  forsaken  ! — dream,  heart,  ao  mor«  t" 

Gipsy  stood  still  in  the  perch,  cold  and  pale,  await- 
ing his  return.  But  though  she  waited  until  the  stars 
grew  dim  in  the  sky,  he  came  not.  Morning  dawned, 
and  found  her  pale  with  undefined  fear,  but  still  he  wa8 
absent. 

After  breakfast,  Archie  came  over,  still  angry  and 
sullen,  after  the  previous  night's  scene,  to  find  Gipsy 
qu/eter  and  more  gentle  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before 
in  her  life. 

"  I  wish  he  would  come  !  I  wish  he  would  come  !" 
cried  her  wild,  excited  heart,  as  she  paced  up  ai^d  down, 
until  her  eyes  grew  bright  and  her  cheeks  grew  burning 
hot,  with  feverish  watching  and  vague  fear. 


?•■  m 


\ 


it! 


:ll 


4     .-ft 


.   I- 

•    ■      r 


*  i 


0 

■•.«.    1 

r" 


I  I" 


i02 


THE    SAILOR    BOY'S    DOOM. 


"You  look  ill  and  excited,  Gipsy.     A  caatet    tvei 

the  hills  will  do  you  good,"  said  Archie,  anxiously. 

She  eagerly  assented,  and  leaping  on  Mignonne'i 
6a::.k,  dashed  away  at  a  tremendous  pa^e,  yet  could  not 
f^o  half  quick  enough  to  satisfy  her  restless  longing  to 
Ay,  fly,  she  knew  not  where. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Gipsy  ?"  cried  Archie,  who 
/ound  some  difficulty  to  keep  up  with  the  break-neck 
^ace  at  which  she  rode. 

"To  the  Black  Gorge,"  was  her  reply,  as  she  thun- 
dered over  the  cliff. 

"  Why,  Gipsy  !  what  possesses  you  to  go  to  that  wild 
place  ?"  said  Archie,  in  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know — I  feel  as  if  I  must  go  there  !  Don  t 
calk  to  me,  Arciiie  !     I  believe  I'm  crazy  this  morning  !" 

She  flew  on  swifter  than  ever,  until  they  reached  the 
/pot — a  huge,  black,  yawning  gulf  among  the  hills.  She 
jodc  so  close  to  the  fearful  brink  that  Archie's  heart 
rfiood  otill  in  horror. 

"  Arc  you  mad,  Gipsy  ?"  he  cned,  seizing  her  bridle- 
j«in  and  torcing  her  back.  "  One  false  step,  and  your 
V  rains  would  be  dashed  out  against  the  rocks." 

But,  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  dark  chasm,  she  answered 
him  only  by  a  wild,  prolonged  shriek,  so  full  of  piercing 
anguish  that  his  blood  seemed  curdling  in  his  veins, 
while,  with  bloodless  face  and  quivering  finger,  she 
pointed  to  the  gulf. 

He  leaped  from  his  horse  and  approached  the  dizzy 
edge.  And  there  a  sight  met  his  eyes  that  froze  his  heart 
with  horror. 

•'  Great  God  !"  he  cried,  springing  back,  with  a  face 
deadly  white.  "  A  horse  and  rider  lie  dead  and  mangled 
below  !" 

A  deadly  faintness  came  over  Gipsy;  the  ground 
■eemed  reelioer  around  her.  and  countless  stars  danced 


■fl 


■m 


tei   wet 

isly, 

ynonne'i 
ould  not 
nging  to 

lie,  who 
eak-neck 

he  thun- 

that  wild 

!  Dont 
Drning  !" 
ched  the 
lis.  She 
e's  heart 

;r  bridle- 
ind  your 

mswered 

piercing 

is   veins, 

iger,   she 

:he  dizzy 
his  heart 

:h  a  face 
mangled 

J  ground 
'»  danced 


TIf£    SAILOU    BOY'S    DOOM, 


ao3 


before  her  eyes.  For  a  moment  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
swooning,  then  by  a  powerful  effort  the  tide  of  life  rolled 
back,  and  she  leaped  from  her  horse  and  stood  b\  his 
side. 

"It  is  impossible  to  reach  the  bottom,"  cried  Archie 
m  a  voice  low  with  horror.  "  A  cat  could  hardly  clan; 
ber  down  those  perpendicular  sides." 

"I  can  do  it,  Archie  ;  I  often  went  up  and  down  thm?. 
when  a  child,"  exclaimed  Gipsy  ;  and  ere  Archie  coiiid 
restrain  her,  the  fearless  girl  had  caught  hold  of  a  stunlcc' 
spruce  tree  and  swung  herself  over  the  edge  of  the  ap- 
palling gorge. 

Archie  Rivers  scarcely  breathed  ;  he  felt  as  though  he 
scarcely  lived  while  she  rapidly  descended  by  catching 
the  matted  shrubs  growing  along  its  sides.  She  v;as 
down  at  last,  and  bending  over  the  mangled  form  below. 

"  Gipsy  !  Gipsy  !  do  you  recognize  him  ?"  cried 
Archie. 

She  looked  up,  and  he  saw  a  face  from  which  every 
trace  of  life  seemed  to  have  fled. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  hoarsely.  **  It  is  Danvers  f  Ride 
— ride  for  your  life  to  Sunset  Hall,  and  bring  men  and 
ropes  to  take  him  up  !" 

In  an  instant  he  was  in  the  saddle,  and  off.  In  less 
than  an  hour  he  returned,  with  half  the  population  in 
the  village  after  him,  whom  the  news  of  the  catastrophe? 
had  brought  together. 

Ropes  were  lowered  to  Gipsy,  who  still  remainct' 
where  Archie  had  left  her,  and  the  lifeless  form  of  the 
young  man  drawn  up.  Gipsy,  refusingall  aid,  clambered 
up  the  side,  and  the  mournful  cavalcade  set  out  for  Sun- 
set Hall. 

He  was  quite  dead.  It  was  evident  he  had  fallen,  in 
the  darkness,  into  the  gorge,  and  been  instantly  kiJed. 
His  fa'r  hair  kung,  clotted  with  blood,  round  his  tor» 


:*■.:■( 


V. 


■'^ 


\-:M 


■,   1 


u 


t  ■■  '.■ 


];.' 


r- 


I'l ' 


«.'. 


'yf, 


*. ... 


mi  L 


I 


ao4     TB£    SPIDER     WEAVES    SIS     WEB. 

head  :  and  a  fearful  gash  in  the  temple  showed  tlia 
wound  whence  his  young  life  had  flowed  away.  And 
Gipsy,  feeling  as  though  she  were  his  murderess,  sat  by 
his  side,  and,  gazing  on  the  still,  cold  form,  shed  the  first 
bitter  tears  that  had  ever  fallen  from  her  eyes.  By  some 
strange  coincidence,  it  was  in  that  self-same  spot  the 
dead  body  of  Barry  O  ran  more  had  been  found. 

Poor  Gipsy  !  The  sunshine  was  fast  fading  out  of 
her  sky,  and  the  clouds  of  fate  gathering  thick  and  fast 
around  her.  She  wept  now  for  another — knowing  not 
how  soon  she  was  to  weep  for  herself. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


THE    SPIDER   WEAVES   HIS   WIB. 

*•  A  fearful  sign  stands  in  thy  house  of  lif«— 
An  enemy — a  fiend  lurks  close  behind 
The  radiance  of  thy  planet.    Oh,  be  warned  !" 

— CoLimn>OB. 

"  And  now  a  darker  hour  ascends." — MAUfiON, 


WEEK    after  the  event  recorded  inthe  last 
chapter  Archie  went  back  to  the  city.     Be- 
fore  he  went,   he  had    obtained  a    promise 
from  Gipsy — who  had  grown  strangely  still 
and  gentle  since  the  death  of  Danvers — to 
become  his  wife  immediately  upon  his  return  ;  but,  with 
her  usual  eccentricity,  she  refused  to  allow  him  to  make 
their  engagement  public. 

"  Time  enough  by  and  by,"  was  still  her  answer  ;  and 
Archie  was  forced  to  be  content. 

Gipsy  was,  for  a  while.  sAd  and  quiet,  Unit  both  were 


:  i 


liHi 


9. 


ed  tUa 

.     And 

sat  by 

he  first 

y  some 

)ot  the 

cut  of 

nd  fast 

ng  not 

AmoB. 


he  last 
y.  Be- 
promise 
ely  still 
ers — to 
It,  with 
o  make 

er ;  and 

th  were 


THE    SPIDER     WEAVES    MIS    WEM     n^l 

foreign  to  her  character  ;  and,  with  the  natural  b.i:>y» 
ancy  of  yo.ith,  she  shook  off  her  gloom,  and  soon  onc« 
more  her  merry  hiugh  made  music  through  the  old  house. 

Doctor  Nicholas  Wiseman  sometimes  made  his  appear- 
ance at  Sunset  Hall  of  late.  Lizzie  was  suffering  from 
a  low  fever  ;  and  as  he  was  the  only  physician  in  St. 
Mark's,  he  was  called  in. 

As  he  sat  one  day  in  the  parlor  at  luncheon  with  the 
squire,  Gipsy  came  tripping  along  with  her  visual  elastic 
step,  and  touching  her  hat  gallantly  to  the  gentlemen, 
ran  up  to  her  own  room.  The  squire's  eyes  followed  her 
with  a  look  of  fond  pride. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  another  charming  little 
vixen  ?"  he  asked,  turning  to  the  doctor. 

"  Miss  Gowcr's  certainly  an  extraordinary  young 
lady,"  said  the  doctor,  dryly.  "  I  have  often  been  sur- 
prised, Squire  Erliston,  that  you  should  treat  your  house- 
keeper's niece  as  one  of  your  own  family." 

"  She's  not  my  housekeeper's  niece,"  blurted  out  the 
squire  ;  "  she  was " 

He  paused,  suddenly  recollectiiig  that  the  discovery 
of  Gipsy  was  a  secret. 

"  She  was  what  ?"  said  the  doctor,  fixing  his  keen 
eyes  on  the  old  man's  face. 

"  Well,  hang  it,  Wiseman,  I  suppose  it  makes  no  dif- 
ference whether  I  tell  you  or  not.  Gipsy  is  not  Mrs. 
Gower's  niece  :  she  is  a  foundling." 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  pricking  up  his  ears. 

"Yes,  last  Christmas  Eve,  just  seventeen  years  ago, 

Mrs.  Gower,  returning  from  A ,  found  Gipsy  lying 

on  the  beach,  near  the  south  end  of  the  city." 

Long  habit  had  given  Dr.  Wiseman  full  control  ever 
his  emotions,  but  now  the  blood  rushed  in  a  purple  tide 
to  his  sallow  face,  as  he  leaped  from  hit  chair  and  fairly 
ihouted : 


'■^ 


r; 


ir: 


I'    I 


I   : 


1 

1, 

i 
1 

1  1 

1 

.■ill! 
;1    I    1 


I         1 


f  1 


8o6     TITB    SPTDER     WEAVES    HIS     WMM. 

"  Whatr 

**  Eh  ?  Lord  bless  the  man! — what's  the  matter  F* 
Slid  the  squire,  staring  at  him  until  his  :ittle  fat  eyea 
seemed  ready  to  burst  from  their  sockets. 

"  What  did  you  say  ? — found  her  on  the  beach  on 
Christmas  Eve,  seventeen  years  ago?"  said  the  doctor, 
seizinji;  him  fiercely  by  the  arm,  and  glaring  upon  hira 
with  his  yellow  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  said  so.  What  in  the  name  of  all  the  demons 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  roared  the  squire,  shaking  him 
off.     "What  iloyou  know  about  it?" 

"Nothing!  nothing!  nothing!"  replied  the  doctor, 
remembering  himself,  and  sinking  back  in  his  chair. 
**  Pray,  go  on," 

The  squire  eyed  him  suspiciously. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  every  trace  of  emo- 
tion now  passed  away,  "forgive  my  violence.  But 
really,  :he  story  seemed  so  improbable " 

"Improbable  or  not,  sir,"  interrupted  the  squire 
angry  at  being  doubted,  "  it's  true  as  Gospel.  It  was  a 
snowy,  unpleasant  night.  Mrs.  Gower  and  Jupiter  were 
returning  from  the  city,  and  took  the  shore  road  in  pref- 
erence to  going  over  the  hills.  As  they  went  along, 
Mrs.  Gower  was  forced  to  get  out  on  account  of  the 
dangerous  road ;  and  hearing  a  child  cry,  she  stooped 
down,  and  found  Gipsy  lying  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  in 
the  sand.  Well,  sir,  tny  housekeeper,  as  a  matter  of 
course — being  a  humane  woman — brought  the  child 
(which  could  not  have  been  a  week  old)  home,  and  gave 
it  her  name.  And  that,  sir,  is  the  history  of  Giosy 
Gower,  lot  it  seem  ever  so  improbable." 

Like  lightning  there  flashed  across  -he  mind  of  tne 
doctor  the  recollection  of  the  advancing  sleigh-belis 
which  had  startled  him  from  the  beach.  This,  then,  waa 
the    secret    of    he;    disappearance !     This,    then,    wai 


ur. 


natter  f 
fat  eyea 

each  on 

doctor, 

>on  him 

demons 
ng  him 

doctor, 
s  chair. 


of  emo- 
,     But 

squirC; 
t  was  a 
er  were 
in  pref- 

along, 
;  of  the 
stooped 
bawl,  io 
itter  of 
i  child 
nd  gave 

Giosy 

I  of  tne 
jh-bells 
en,  was 
n,    wai 


TJTi:    SP/DEH     JV EAVES    BIS     WBB.    lof 

the  child  of  Esther  Erliston  and  Alfred  Oranmorel 
This  wild,  untamed,  daring  elf  was  the  heiress,  in  her 
mother's  right,  of  all  the  broad  lands  of  the  Erlistons. 
She  had  been  brought  up  as  a  dependent  in  the  house  of 
which  she  was  the  rightful  heiress :  and  the  squire 
dreamed  not  that  his  "  monkey"  was  his  grandchild  ! 

Thoughts  like  these  flashed  like  lightning  through 
the  mind  of  Dr.  Wiseman.  Tiie  sudden,  startling  dis- 
covery bewildered  him  ;  he  felt  unequal  to  the  task  of 
conversing.  And  making  some  excuse,  he  arose  abrupt- 
ly, entered  his  gig,  and  letting  the  reins  fall  on  his 
hofse's  neck,  allowed  him  to  make  the  best  of  his  way 
home ,  while,  with  his  head  dropped  on  his  breast, 
he  pondered  on  the  strange  disclosure  he  had  just 
heard. 

No  one  living,  it  was  evident,  knew  who  she  was, 
save  himself.  What  would  old  Dame  Oranmore  say 
when  she  heard  it  ?  Wretch  as  he  was,  he  found  himself 
forced  to  acknowledge  the  hand  of  a  ruling  Providence 
in  all  this.  The  child  who  had  been  cast  out  to  die  had 
been  nurtured  in  the  home  that  was  hers  by  right.  By 
his  hand  the  mother  had  perished  ;  yet  the  heroism  of 
the  daughtei  had  preserved  his  worthless  life. 

"What  use  shall  I  make  of  this  discovery?"  he 
mused,  as  he  rode  along.  "  How  can  I  turn  it  to  my 
own  advantage  ?  If  I  wish  it,  I  can  find  little  difficulty 
;rj  convincing  the  world  that  she  is  the  rightful  heiress 
of  Mount  Sunset,  instead  of  Louis  Oranmore.  But  how 
to  do  it,  without  implicating  myself — that's  the  question. 
There  was  no  witness  to  the  death-bed  scene  of  Esther 
Erliston  ;  and  I  can  assert  that  Madam  Oranmore  caused 
me  tc  remove  the  child,  without  mentioning  the  mother 
at  all.  I  can  also  easily  feign  some  excuse  for  leaving 
her  in  the  snow — talk  about  my  remorse  ana  anguish  at 
finding  her  gDoe,  and  all  that     Now,  if  I  could  only  gel 


I'i 


I .  ■  •„  »i 


,  ■       •]•■■■  ,; 


'V\ 


t  .' 


.-Ml;" 

'ft    '  / 


i,    .  Sr 


/i '  1 

'f'j    ' 

'Hi' 

^1 

IH' 

\, 

' '  !                : 

■:Vt, 


•■  *! 


11 


MoB     THE    SPIDER     WEAVES    HIS     WEB. 

this  hare-brained  cjirl  securely  in  my  power,  in  suck*  a 
way  as  to  make  her  money  the  price  of  her  freedom,  I 
would  not  hesitate  one  moment  about  proclaiming  it  all. 
But  how  to  get  her  in  my  power — she  is  keen  and  wide- 
awake, with  all  her  madness,  and  not  half  soeasilyduped 
as  most  girls  of  her  age      Let  me  think  !" 

His  liead  fell  lower,  his  claw-like  hands  opened  and 
shut  as  though  clutching  some  one,  his  brows  knit  in  a 
hard  knot,  and  his  eyes  seemed  burning  holes  in  the 
ground,  with  their  wicked,  immovable  gaze. 

At  last,  his  mind  seemed  to  be  made  up.  Lifting  his 
head,  he  said,  with  calm,  grim  determination  : 

"  Yes,  my  mind  is  made  up  ;  that — girl — shall — be— 
my — WIFE  !'* 

Again  he  paused.  His  project,  when  repeated  aloud, 
seemed  so  impossible  to  accomplish  that  it  almost 
startled  him. 

**  It  may  be  difficult  to  bring  about,"  he  said,  as  if  is 
answer  to  his  momentary  hesitation.  "  No  doubt  it  will ; 
but,  nevertheless,  it  shall,  it  will,  it  must  be  done  !  Once 
her  husband,  and  I  shall  have  a  legal  right  to  everything 
she  possesses.  The  world  need  not  know  I  have  made 
the  discovery  until  after  our  marriage  ;  it  shall  think  i: 
is  for  love  I  marrj'  her.  Love  ! — ha,  ha,  ha  !  Just  fancj 
Dr.  Wiseman^  at  the  age  of  fifty-nine,  falling  in  lovt 
with  a  chit  of  a  girl  of  seventeen  !  Well,  I  shall  set  my 
wits  to  work  ;  and  if  I  fail  to  accomplish  it,  it  will  be  the 
first  time  I  have  ever  failed  in  aught  I  have  undertaken. 
She  calls  me  a  spider ;  let  her  take  care  lest  she  bs 
caught — lest  her  bright  wings  are  imprisoned  in  the  web 
I  will  weave.  Her  opposition  will  be  fierce  and  firm  ; 
and,  if  I  have  studied  her  aright,  she  can  only  be 
conquered  through  those  she  loves.  That  she  loves  that 
whipper-snapper  of  a  nephew  of  mine,  I  have  long 
known ;  and  yet  that  very  love  shall  make  her  become 


in  suck  a 
reedom,  I 
ling  it  all. 
and  wide 
sily  duped 

)ened  and 

knit  in  a 

les  in  the 

Lrifting  his 
hall — be- 
lted aloud, 
it  almost 

id,  as  if  in 

ibt  it  will ; 

le !     Once 

very thing 

lave  made 

ill  think  i: 

Just  fancj 

ig  in  lovt 

lall  set  my 

^rill  be  the 

idertaken. 

;st  she  bs 

in  the  web 

and  firm  ; 

only   be 

loves  that 

lave   long 

er  become 


TffB    SPIDER     WEAVES    HIS    WEB,    to^ 

my  wife.     And  so  my  bright  little  Gipsy  Gower — or 
Gipsy  Oranmore — from  this  day  forth  you  arc  mine  I" 


«« 


Look  here,  ai4nty,"  said  Gips),  following  Mrs 
Gower,  as  she  wandered  tli rough  the  house,  brush  in 
hand,  "  what  brings  that  old  spider  here  so  often  of  late  ? 
He  and  Guardv  appear  to  be  as  thick  as  two  pickpockets 
— though,  a  few  years  ago,  Guardy  detested  the  sight  of 
him.  They  are  for  everlasting  closeted  together,  plotting 
something.     Now,  aunty,  it  looks  suspicious,  don't  it?" 

"  I  am  afraid  Dr.  Wiseman  is  drawing  your  guardian 
intD  some  rash  speculation,"  said  Mrs.  Gower.  "The 
squire  is  always  muttering  about  'stocks,'  and  inter- 
est,' and  such  thin<^s.  I  am  afraid  the  doctor  is  using 
him  for  his  own  purposes.  Heaven  forgive  me  if  I  vrrong 
him !" 

"  Wrong  him  !  I  tell  you,  aunty,  that  Spider's  a 
regular  snake.  I  wouldn't  trust  him  as  far  as  I  could 
see  him.  He  has  a  way  of  looking  at  me  that  I  don't 
half  like.  Whenever  I'm  in  the  room  he  stares  and 
stares  at  me,  as  if  I  were  some  natural  curiosity.  Per- 
haps he's  falling  in  love  with  me.  There  !  I  tell  you 
what,  aunty — I've  just  hit  the  right  thing  in  the  middle 
— he's  meditating  whether  or  not  he'll  raise  me  to  the 
dignity  of  Mrs.  Spider  Wiseman — I  know  he  is !"  ex- 
claimed Gipsy,  laughing,  little  dreaming  how  near  she 
had  stumbled  to  the  truth. 

"  Nonsense,  child,  A  man  of  Dr.  Wiseman's  age  and 
habits  has  littlr  thought  of  taking  a  wife,  much  less  such 
a  wild  one  as  you.  I  hope  it  may  all  turn  out  well, 
though  I  have  my  doubts." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Gipsy  ;  "and  I'm  going  to  keeya 
bright  lookout  for  breakers  ahead.  If  that  yellow  old 
•gre  tiies  to  bamboozle  poor,  dear,  simple  Guardy,  he'll 
find  himself  in  a  worse  scrape  than  when  I  saved  hiaa^ 


|:« 


I    1,       H. 


!"■ 


■1?.' 


(' 


V     ."<•' 


II 

'1 

1 ' 

1 

■ 

•  ' 


III 


I' 


.:«f 


■p 


Hi 


H 


t  ; 

'  I    J 1 

i  '  r 

J  *' 


flio    TB'E   srrnFR    wfavrs  hts    wbb,\ 

liom  droTV  living.  T  know  T  was  bo^n  to  be  a  knif^ht' 
errant,  and  protect,  iniiocent  old  men,  and  astonisk  the 
world  generally.  And  now  I  niubt  run  up  stairs,  and 
see  if  I  can  do  anyihiiii^  for  poor  little  Aunt  Liz." 

While  Gipsy  was  C(;nversing  with  Mrs.  Gower,  a  dia- 
logue of  a  dilforcnt  n.'iMire  was  going  on  in  ihe  parlor 
betwixt  the  squire  :iiid  llie  doctor. 

Artfully  had  Dr.  \V^iseinan's  plans  been  laid,  and 
skillfully  were  they  executed.  With  his  oily,  persuasive 
words,  and  ilatterin',!;  tt^ngue,  he  jjad  got  the  squire  com- 
pletely and  irrecoverably  in  his  power,  in  order  that  the 
hand  of  his  ward  niiglii  be  the  price  of  his  freedom. 

Dr.  Wiseman  knew  the  squire  always  had  a  mania 
for  speculnting.  Taking  advantage  of  this,  he  entrapped 
him  into  investing  in  some  mad  scheme,  which  failed,  as 
the  doctor  well  knew  it  u'ould,  leaving  the  squire  hope- 
lessly in  debt.  Oi  ail  his  creditors  he  owed  the  doctor 
himself  the  most ;  tor  that  obliging  man  had  insisted  on 
lending  hirn  large  sums  of  ready  money.  And  now  the 
time  of  payment  was  at  hand,  and  where  shou)d  he  ob- 
tain the  money  ? 

Squire  Erliston  was  rich — that  is,  the  estate  of  Mount 
Sunset  was  in  itself  a  princely  fortune  ;  but  this  was  to 
descend  to  his  grandson  ;  and  the  squire  had  too  much 
pride  to  allow  it  to  gt)  to  him  burdened  with  debt.  Neither 
could  he  mortgage  any  part  of  it  to  pay  oil  the  debt. 
He  felt  that  his  heir  ought  not  to  suffer  for  his  own  mad- 
ness. Besides,  he  did  not  wish  his  grandson  to  know 
how  egregiously  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  duped  by 
A  set  of  sharperb.  Therefore  he  now  sat  listening  to  the 
doctor,  half-s:u'peiied  at  learning  the  extent  of  his  losses 
— the  amount  of  debts  w}i^:h  he  had  no  means  of  paying; 
while  ttie  doctor  condoled  with  him  outwardly,  and 
chuckled  inwardly  at  the  success  of  his  plans. 

**  Moore,  to  whom  y^u  are  indebted  to  the  amount  o( 


THE    SPfPER     WEAVES    HIS     WSB.    an 

iv7cnLy  thousand  d'Hars,  c\'en  goes  so  far  as  to  threaten 
l;i\v  prtjcccdiiigs  if  he  is  not  immediately  paid/'  said  the 
doctor,  continuing  the  conversation. 

The  squire  groaned. 

"  1  told  him  it  might  not  be  convenient  foi  you  to 
meet  so  many  heavy  liabilities  at  once :  but  he  would 
not  listen  to  reason — said  he  would  give  you  a  week  to 
deliberate,  and  if  at  the  end  of  that  time  the  money  was 
not  forthcoming,  your  rascality^  as  he  termed  it,  should 
be  openly  proclaimed  to  the  world,  and  the  law  would 
force  you  to  pay." 

**  Oh,  Lord  !"  said  the  squire,  writhing  inwardly. 

"  His  intention,  without  doubt,  is  to  obtain  aclaim  on 
M<nint  Sunset  i  and,  your  other  creditors  joining  him, 
the  whole  estate  will  finally  become  theirs." 

"  Never  !'*  shouted  the  squire,  leaping  fiercely  to  his 
feet.  "  I  will  shoot  every  villain  among  them  first  ! 
Mount  Sunset  has  been  in  our  family  for  years,  and  no 
gang  of  swindlers  shall  ever  possess  it." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  soothingly,  "do  not 
be  excited.  It  is  useless,  and  will  only  make  matters 
worse.  You  see  you  are  completely  in  their  power,  and 
there  is  no  possible  hope  of  escape.  In  spite  of  all  you 
can  do,  I  fear  Mount  Sunset  will  be  theirs,  and  you  and 
your  family  will  be  turned  out  upon  the  world,  compaia- 
lively  speaking,  beggars." 

The  unhappy  squire  sank  back  in  his  chair  ;  and,  cov- 
ering his  face  with  his  hands,  writhed  and  groaned  io 
mental  torture. 

"  Your  only  course  now,"  continued  the  merciless 
doctor,  fixing  his  snake  like  eves  with  lurking  trijmph 
on  his  victim,  "  is  to  write  to  your  grandson,  confess  all 
to  him,  and  bring  him  home.  He  is  an  artist  of  some 
uote,  they  say.     Most  probably,  therefore,  he  will  be  able 


i'."  I'll- 

i  I 


*,  .' 


\'" 


r  1 

■■  It  * 


4 


4 


Pfl    ' 


i  I 


•12     TII£    SPIDER     WEAVRS    BIS     WEB. 

to  support  you — though  it  may  seem  strange  to  him  fiiil 

to  work  for  his  living." 

"  Work  for  liis  livintj  !"  shouted  the  squire,  maddened 
by  tlie  words.  '*  Louis  Oranmore  woric  for  his  living  ! 
No,  sir  !  he  hnii  not  sunk  so  low  as  that  yet.  If  need  bcj 
he  has  the  property  of  his  grandmother  Oranmore  still 
remainrng." 

"  The  property  of  Mrs.  Oranmore  will  not  be  his  un- 
til her  death,  which  may  not  be  this  ten  years  yet.  She 
is  hard  and  penuricjus,  and  would  hardly  give  him  a 
guinea  lo  keep  liini  from  starving.  Besides,  would _y<?«, 
Squire  Erliston,  live  on  the  bounty  of  Mrs.  Oranmore  ?" 
said  the  doctor,  with  a  sarcastic  sneer. 

"No,  sir;  I  would  die  of  starvation  first  I"  replied 
the  squire,  almost  fiercely.  "But  she,  or  some  one 
else,  might  lend  me  the  money  to  pay  off  these  accursed 
debts." 

"  Not  on  such  security  as  you  would  give,  Squire 
Erliston,"  said  the  doctor,  calmly.  "  In  fact,  my  dear 
sir,  it  is  useless  to  think  of  escaping  your  fate.  Mount 
Sunset  must  be  given  up  to  satisfy  these  men  I" 

"  Oh,  fool !  fool !  fool ! — miserable  old  fool  that  I 
was,  to  allow  myself  to  be  so  wretchedly  duped  !" 
groaned  the  squire,  in  bitter  anguish  and  remorse. 
"  Better  for  me  had  I  never  been  born,  than  that  such 
disgrace  should  be  mine  in  my  old  age  !  And  Louis  ! — 
poor  Lou.s  !  But  I  will  never  see  him  again.  If  Mount 
Sunset  brt  taken  from  me  it  will  break  my  heart.  Every 
tree  and  picture  about  the  old  place  is  hallowed  by  the 
memory  of  the  past  ;  and  now  that  I  should  lose  it 
through  my  own  blind,  miserable  folly  !  Oh !  woe  ia 
me  !"  And,  burying  his  great  head  in  his  hands  the  un. 
happy  old  man  actually  sobbed  outright. 

Now  had  the  hour  of  Dr.  Wiseman's  triumph  come  , 
aow  was  the  time  to  make  his  daring  proposal.     Awhilo 


THE    SPIDER     WEAVES    BIS     WEB,    ti% 


he  sat  jifloatinc;  uver  the  ugonics  of  his  victim  ;  and  theo, 
in  slow,  deliberate  tones,  he  said  : 

"But  in  ail  this  darkness,  Squire  Erliston,  there  stil' 
remains  one  ray  of  light — one  solitary  hope.  What 
would  you  do  if  I  were  to  i.iler  to  cancel  what  you  owe 
me,  to  pay  off  all  your  other  ilebts,  and  free  you  once 
more  ?" 

•*  Do  !"  exclaimed  the  squire,  leaping  in  his  excite* 
ment  from  the  chair.  *'  JJo,  did  you  say  ?  I  tell  you,  Dr. 
Wiseman,  there  is  ncithing  under  heaven  I  would  not  do. 
But  you — you  only  mock  me  by  these  words." 

"  I  do  not,  Squire  Erliston.  On  one  condition  your 
debtf  shall  every  one  be  paid,  and  Mount  Sunset  still  re- 
main yours." 

"  And  that  condition  !  For  I^Ieaven's  sake  name  it  I" 
:ried  the  squire,  half  maddened  by  excitement. 

"  Will  you  agree  to  it  ?" 

**  Yes,  though  you  sliould  even  ask  my  life  !** 

"  That  would  be  of  little  service  to  me,"  said  tho 
doctor,  with  a  dry  smile.  "  No  ;  I  ask  something  much 
easier." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  name  it !"  exclaimed  the  tquire, 
wildly. 

"  It  is " 

"  What  ?" 

"  7%<f  hand  of  your  ward^  Gipsy  Gtwer.** 

The  squire  stood  like  one  transfixed  with  amazement, 
his  eyes  ready  to  shoot  from  his  head  with  surprise  and 
consternation.  And  calmly  before  him  sat  the  doctor, 
ills  leathern  countenance  as  expressionless  as  ever, 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  said  the  squire,  at  length,  as 
though  doubting  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 

"  My  words  were  plainly  spoken.  I  will  free  yoa 
from  all  your  debts  on  condition  that  you  bestow  upoa 


(' 


'.  \ 


ii 


' 


11 


ik 


1» 


f 


I      I 


A      '■  ! 


114     rjy^    SPIDER     WEAVES    If/S     WEB. 

me  in  marriage  the  hand  of  your  young  ward,  Gipsy 
Gower." 

"  But — Lord  bless  me  !  my  dear  sir,  what  in  the  ^roild 
Qdca.you  want  with  that  chit  of  a  child — that  mad  girl  of 
the  mountains — for  a  wife?"  (xcUimedthe  squire,  stilj 
aghast. 

•*  I  want  her,  let  that  sufSce,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a 
frown.     "  Do  you  agree  to  this  proposal  ?" 

"  Why,  /';//  willing  enough,  but  j//^- -oh,  Dr.  Wiseman, 
the  thincf  is  hopeless — she'd  never  consent  in  this  world, 
She  can  be  as  obstinate  as  a  little  mule  when  she  likes 
'When  a  woman  won't,  she  won't,  and  there's  the  end 
on't,'  as  Solomon  says." 

"You  must  make  her." 

"  Me  !     Why,  she  doesn't  mind  me- " 

*•' Squire    Erliston,"    angrily    broke    in    the   doctor, 
*  listen  to  me  ;  either  you  lose  Mount  Sunset  and  arc 
publicly  disgraced,  or  you  will  compel  this  girl  to  marry 
me.     Do  you  hear  ?" 

"  There  !  there  !  don't  be  hasty  !  I'll  do  what  I  can. 
It  won't  be  my  fault  if  she  don't.  But  who'd  ever  think 
oiyou  wanting  to  marry  little  Gipsy.  Well,  well,  well, 
*  Wonders  will  never  cease,'  as  Solomon  says." 

"You  can  explain  the  matter  to  her — urge  her  by  her 
gratitude,  her  love  for  you,  to  consent,"  said  the  doctor  ; 
"try  the  sentimental  dodge — commands  in  this  case  will 
be  worse  than  useless.  Enlist  the  women  on  your  side  • 
and  above  all  th'ngs  keep  it  a  profound  secret  from  Ar- 
chibald Rivers  and  Louis  Oranmore.  If  none  of  your 
arguments  move  her,  I  have  still  another  in  reserve  that 
I  know  will  clinch  the  business.  Give  her  no  rest,  day 
or  night,  until  she  consents  ;  and  if  she  complains  of 
cruelty,  and  all  that,  don'*  mind  her.  All  girls  are  silly  : 
»nd  she,  being  half-crazy,  as  she  Is,  it  seems  to  me  the 
great'^st  favor  you  can  do  her  is  to  marry  her  to  a  man 


l' ■' 


FETTERS    FOR     THE    EAGLET, 


"$ 


ol  sense  and  experience  like  myself.  Keep  in  mind  what 
yoii  lose  by  her  refusal,  and  what  you  gain  by  her  con- 
Bcnt.  If  she  will  not  marry  me,  I  will  add  my  claims  to 
thobe  of  your  other  creditors,  and  no  earthly  power  will 
beabie  lo  save  you  from  total  ruin,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
grim,  iron  determination. 

"She  shall  consent!  she  shall — she  »f«j/.'"  said  the 
squire,  startled  by  his  last  threat ;  "'  she  shall  be  your  wife, 
that  is  settled.  I  think  I  can  manage  her,  though  it  will 
be  a  desperate  struggle." 

"  I  shall  force  myself  into  her  presence  as  little  as 
possible,"  said  the  doctor,  calmly  ;  "  she  has  no  particular 
love  for  me  as  yet,  and  it  will  not  help  on  my  case. 
Mind,  I  shall  expect  you  will  use  all  your  energies,  foi 
our  marriage  must  take  place  in  a  month  at  farthest,' 
said  the  doctor,  as  he  arose,  and,  with  a  last  expressiye 
g^lance  at  his  victim,  withdrew. 


•  ^ 


♦ 


<    'A 

*    wl 


I^kIa^  * 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

FETTERS    FOR    THE  XAOLBT. 

'*  I'm  o'er  young,  I'm  e'er  yonnf — 
I'm  o'er  young  to  marry  yeL 
I'm  o'er  young  ;  'twould  be  a  tiB 
To  take  me  from  ray  mammy  yet.**—' 


]IPSY,  my  dear,  come  here  and  sit  beside  me 
I  have  something  very  important  to  say  to 
you,"  said  the  squire,  as,  half  an  hour  later, 
he  caught  sight  of  Gipsy,  running,  singing, 
down  stairs. 
Why,  Guardy,  \rhat's  the  matter?     Ton  look  as 


A  . 


;J 


!i!| 


I 


m 


lis 


UM 


i    1 


i 


II 


i!!' 


ti6 


FETTERS    FOR     THE    EAGLET, 


solemn  as  a  coffin,"  said  Gipsy,  coming  in  and  sitticfi 
down  on  a  stool  at  his  side. 


« 


is  a  solemn  subject. 


psy,  marria 
"Shockingly    solemn 
thinking  of  marrying  ?" 

"I'm  thinking  of  marrying  you 


Guardy     And   who  are  you 


«( 


Marrying  me?  Oh,  Jerusalem  !  Well,  if  aunty  con 
sents,  I'm  willing.  La!  won't  it  be  fun?  Just  ^A,ncy 
Louis  calling  me  grandmother  !     Ha,  ha  ! 

"Hush,  you  chatterbox — don't  interrupt  me.  As  I 
was  saying,  I  have  been  thinking  of  marrying  you  to 
some  discreet,  sensible  man.  You  are  too  wild  and 
giddy,  and  you  must  get  married  and  settle  down." 

"Just  so,  Guardy  ;  I've  been  thinking  of  it  myself." 

"  Now,  there's  Doctor  Wiseman,  for  instance.  He'd 
be  an  excellent  h;i  Ijand  for  you.  Ht'is  a  pleasan*  gen- 
tleman, possesf^ing  many  sound,  sterling  qualities,  learned, 
and  not  bad  looking " 

"  Exactly,  Guardy — useful  as  well  as  ornamental. 
For  instance,  he'd  do  to  put  in  a  corn-field  to  scare  away 
the  crows. " 

"  Don't  be  impertinent,  Miss  Gowcr !  Doctor  Wise- 
man is  a  serious  man,  self-balanced  and  grave " 

"  Grave  !  I  guess  so  !  He  always  reminds  me  of  death 
aad  his  scythe  whenever  I  see  him." 

"  Silence,  and  listen  to  me !  Now  what  objection 
could  you  possibly  make  to  Doctor  Wiseman  as  a  hus- 
band ?" 

"  As  a  husband  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Why,  Guardy,  you 
don't  mean  to  say  that  that  yellow-skinned,  spindle- 
shanked,  dwarfed  old  ogre,  with  one  leg  in  the  grave, 
and  the  other  over  the  fence,  is  thinking  of  marrying— 
4o  you  ?" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  or  you'll  lose  it,  joa  little  wretch! 


FETTERS    FOR     THE    EAGLET, 


•«r 


>ctor  Wise- 


ae  of  death 


Doctor  Wiseman  is  no  old  cgre,  out  a  daik'Complex- 
ioned " 

"  Saffron,  saffron  Guardy  !  Tell  the  truth,  now,  %\'i^ 
shame  your  master.     Isn't  it  saffron  ?" 

'*  I'll  brain  you  ."f  you  don't  stop  !  A  man  can't  get 
in  a  word  edgeways  with  you.  Dr.  Wiseman,  minx,  has 
:!one  you  the  honor  to  propose  for  your  hand.  I  have 
'jonsented,  and " 

But  the  squire  broke  off  suddenly,  in  a  towering  rage 
— for  Gipsy,  after  an  incredulous  stare,  burst  into  a  shout 
of  laughter  that  made  the  house  ring.  Pressing  her 
hands  to  her  sides,  she  laughed  until  the  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks  ;  and,  at  last,  unable  to  stop,  she  rolled  off  her 
seat  on  to  the  floor,  and  tumbled  over  and  over  in  a  per- 
fect convulsion. 

"  Oh,  you  little  aggravation  1  Will  you  stop?"  cried 
the  squire,  seizing  her  by  the  shoulder,  and  shaking  her 
until  she  was  breatliless. 

"  Oil,  Guardy,  that's  too  good  I  Marry  me  ?  Oh,  I 
declare,  I'll  split  my  sides  I"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  going  into 
another  fit  of  laughter,  as  she  essayed  in  vain  to  rise. 

"  Gipsy  Gower  !  Cease  your  folly  for  a  moment,  and 
rise  up  and  listen  to  me,"  said  the  squire,  so  sternly  that 
Gipsy  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  pressing  her 
hands  to  her  sides,  resumed  her  seat. 

'*  Gipsy,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  consider  me  a  boaster 
but  you  know  I  have  done  a  great  deal  for  yau,  brought 
you  up,  educated  you,  and  intended  leaving  you  a  for- 
tune at  my  death " 

"  Thank  you,  Guardy  ;  couldn't  you  let  mc  have  part 
of  it  now  ?" 

"  Silence,  I  tell  you  !  Gipsy,  tnis  is  what  I  intendea 
doing  ;  but,  child,  I  have  become  involved  in  debt 
Mount  Sunset  will  be  taken  from  me,  and  jou,  and 
Louis,  and  the  rest  of  us  will  be  beggan." 

M 


\\\    •  ■  .; 


S";< 


» 


M 


i" 


t 


lis 


ii 


i 


i     i' 


'   \  1 


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III 


m 
lit-- 1 


t:3 


FETTERS    FOR     THE    EAGLET, 


Up  fievv  Gipsy's  eyebrows,  open  flew  her  eyes,  and 
down  dropped  her  chin,  in  unfeigned  amazement. 

*'  Yes,"  continued  the  squire,  '*  you  may  stare,  butit'i 
true.  yVnd  now,  Gipsy,  since  yc  \  told  me  you  were  not 
ungrateful — now  is  the  time  to  prove  it,  by  saving  me 
and  all  your  friends  from  ruin." 

"/  save  you  from  ruin  ?"  said  Gipsy,  staring  with  all 
her  eyes,  and  wondering  if  "  Guardy  "  was  wandering^  in 
his  mind. 

"  Yes,  you.  As  I  told  you,  I  am  involved  in  debt, 
which  it  is  utterly  impossible  for  me  to  pay.  Now,  Doc- 
tor Wiseman,  who  has  fallen  in  love  with  my  fairy,  has 
offered  to  pay  my  debts  if  you  will  marry  him.  Don't 
laugh,  don't.,  as  I  see  you  are  going  to  do — ^this  is  no  time 
for  laughter,  Gipsy." 

"  Oh,  but  Guardy,  that's  too  funny  I    The  idea  of  me, 

a  little  girl  of  seventeen,  marrying  a   man  of  sixty — 

specially  such  a  man  as  Spider  Wiseman  !     Oh,  Guardy 

it's  the  best  joke  of  the  season  !"  cried  Gipsy,  buksting 

into  another  immoderate  fit  of  laughter. 

'*  Ungrateful,  hard-hearted  girl  1"  said  the  squire, 
with  tears  actually  in  his  stormy  old  eyes  ;  "  this  is  your 
return  fcr  all  I  have  done  for  you  !  You,  the  only  living 
being  who  can  save  those  who  have  been  your  best 
friends  from  being  turned  out  of  the  old  homestead, 
instead  of  rejoicing  in  being  able  to  do  it,  you  only 
laugh  at  him  in  scorn,  you — "  the  squire  broke  down 
fairly  here. 

Never  had  the  elf  seen  the  usually  violent  old  man  so 
moved.  A  pang  shot  through  her  heart  for  her  levity  ; 
and  the  next  moment  her  arms  were  round  his  neck,  and 
her  white  handkerchief  wiping  away  the  tears  of  which 
he  xvas  ashamed. 

*  Dear — dear  Guardy,  I'm  so  sorry  !  I  never  thought 
you  felt  so  bad  about  it.     I'll  do  anything  in  the  world 


FETTERS    FOR     THE    EAGLET, 


"> 


'i  ^ 


to  help  you  ;  I'm  not  ingrateful.  What  do  you  want  me 
tc  do,  Guardy  ?" 

"  To  j.ave  me,  by  marrying  Doctor  Wiseman,  my 
5ear." 

"  Oh,  Guardy,  oh,  Guardy  !  You  surely  weren't  se- 
rious in  pjroposing  that?"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  really  aston- 
ished. 

"  Serious  ?  Alas  !  I  was  never  so  serious  before  in 
my  life.     You  will  do  this,  Gipsy?" 

"  Oh,  Guardy  !  Marry  him  f  Heaven  forbid  !"  ex- 
claimed Gipsy,  with  a  violent  shudder. 

"Then  you  will  let  us  all  be  turned  out  from  the  old 
roof-tree — out  into  the  world  to  die  ;  for,  Gipsy,  if  the 
old  place  is  taken  from  me,  I  should  break  my  heart 
through  grief  !" 

"Oh,  Guardy,  it  won't  be  so  bad  as  that !  Surely 
something  can  be  done  ?     How  much  do  you  owe  ?" 

"  More  than  I  dare  mention.  Child,  nothing  can  be 
done  to  save  us  unless  you  consent  to  this  marriage." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  too  horrible  even  to  think  of.  Can  you 
not  write  to  Louis  ?  I'm  sure  he  could  do  something  to 
save  us." 

"  No,  he  could  do  nothing  ;  and  he  must  never  know 
it  at  all.  Even  supposing  he  could,  before  a  letter  could 
reach  him  we  would  be  publicly  disgraced — I  should  be 
branded  as  a  rogue,  and  turned  out  of  doors  to  die.  No, 
Gipsy,  unless  you  consent,  before  the  week  is  out,  to  be- 
v^me  the  bride  of  Docto-  Wiseman,  all  hope  will  be  over. 
And  though  afterward,  by  some  hitherto  unheard-of 
miracle,  the  property  should  be  restored  to  us,  I  should 
not  live  to  see  it  ;  for  if  you  persist  in  refusing,  Gipsy, 
I  will  die  by  my  own  hand,  sooner  than  live  to  be  brand- 
ed like  a  feion.  And  Lizzie  and  Mrs.  Gower,  who  love 
you  so  well,  how  do  you  think  they  could  live,  knowing 
that  all  had  been  lost  through  your  ingratitude  !     Louis^ 


r: 


-1  ]^  A  -  I 


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3 


M        \ 


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FET7ERS    FOR    THB    EAGLET. 


too,  your  foster-brother,  how  will  he  look  on  the  girl 
whose  obstinacy  will  make  him  a  beggar  ?  Consent  and 
all  will  be  well,  the  gratitude  and  love  cf  an  oM  man 
will  bless  you  through  life  ;  refuse,  and  my  death  will  be 
on  your  soul,  haunting  you  through  all  your  cheerless, 
unblessed  life." 

With  all  the  eloquence  and  passion  of  intense  selfish* 
ness  he  spoke,  while  each  word  burned  into  the  heart  and 
soul  of  his  listener.  She  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
floor,  half-maddened  by  his  words,  while  the  word  in- 
gratitude seemed  dancing  in  living  letters  of  fire  before 
her. 

"  Oh  !  what  shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  cried, 
wringing  her  hands  wildly. 

"  Let  me  advise  you  ;  I  am  older  and  have  had  ex- 
perience, and  a  claim  on  your  obedience.  Marry  Doctor 
Wiseman  ;  he  is,  I  know,  somewhat  older  than  you,  but 
you  need  a  man  of  age  and  wisdom.  He  is  rich,  and  loves 
you  ;  and  with  him,  conscious  that  you  have  done  your 
duty,  you  will  be  blessed  by  God,  and  be  happy." 

"  Happy  !"  she  broke  in,  scornfully,  "and  with  him  ! 
Happy  !" 

''  It  ii  the  first  favor  I  ever  asked  of  you,  Gipsy,  and 
i  know  you  will  not  refuse.  No  one  must  know  of  it. 
not  one,  save  Lizzie  and  Mrs.  Gower.  You  must  not 
breathe  it  to  a  living  soul,  save  them." 

"  Guardy,  there  is  some  guilt  or  mystery  connected 
with  this  debt.     What  is  it  V* 

**  I  cannot  tell  you  now,  child  ,  when  you  have  obeye«l 
me,  I  will.  Come,  Doctor  Wiseman  will  be  here  for 
your  answer  to-morrow.  Shall  I  tell  him  you  have  con- 
sented ?" 

"Oh !  no,  no  !  no,  no  !  Go«d  heaTom !"  ths  cried 
thuddering^iy. 


connected 


FETTERS    FOR     THE    EAGLET.         atf 

*'  Gipsy  !  Gipsy  !  consent.  I  implore  you,  by  a  I  you 
hold  dear  on  earth,  and  sacred  *n  heaven,  to  coasent !" 
he  said,  witli  wild  vehemence. 

"Oh!  I  cannot !  I  cannot:  I  cannot/  Oh,  Guardy, 
do  not  urge  me  to  this  living  death,"  she  cried  passion* 
ately. 

"  Then  you  can  see  me  die,  child.  This,  then,  is  youi 
gratitufle  !"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"Oh,  Guardy,  you  will  not  die  !  I  will  work  for  you 
— yes,  I  will  toil  night  and  day,  and  work  my  fingers  to 
the  bone,  if  need  be.  I  can  work  more  than  you  wouM 
think." 

"  It  would  be  useless,  worse  than  useless.     I  should 
X  live  to  make  you  work  for  me.     Refuse,  if  you  will, 
and  go  through  life  with  the  death  of  a  fellow-creature 
on  your  soul." 

"  Oh !  I  wish  I  had  never  been  born,"  said  Gipsy 
wringing  her  pale  fingers  in  anguish. 

"  Consent !  consent !  Gipsy,  for  my  sake  !  For  the 
sake  of  the  old  man  who  loves  you  !" 

She  did  not  reply ;  she  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room  like  one  half-crazed,  with  wild,  excited  eyes,  and 
flushed  cheeks. 

'*  You  do  not  speak.  *  Silence  gives  consent,'  as  Sol- 
omon says,"  said  the  squire,  the  ruling  habit  still  "  strong 
in  death." 

"  Let  me  think  !  You  must  give  me  time,  Guardy  !  1 
will  go  to  my  room  now,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  have 
my  answer." 

"  Go,  then  ;  I  know  it  will  be  favorable.  I  dare 
not  think  otherwise.  To-morrow  morning  I  will 
know." 

"  Yes,  to-morrow,"  said  Gipsy,  as  she  left  the  reoa 
and  fled  wildly  up  ■ 


\ 


■  '  -n 


1  ■■t   ;    ' 


1 

r 

•V 

At 

■^ 


1        ■    ..       •,-  ii: 


m 


iMf 


r  *i 


li! 


II 


fltfl 


r^;^   /?AA»;9   CAGED, 


"  To-morrow,"  said  (he  old  sinner,  looking  aftei  her. 
"  And  what  will  thai  answer  be  ?  '  Who  can  tell  what  a 
day  may  bring  forth  ?'  as  Solomon  says." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THE    UIRD   CAGED. 


"Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  a  withered  heart, 
The  curse  of  a  sleepless  eye  ; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  woald  part, 
Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die." — ScoTT. 

lORNING  came.  The  sqiiire  sat  in  the  break- 
fast parlor,  impatiently  waiting  for  the  com- 
ing of  Gipsy.  He  waited  in  vain.  The  mo. 
mcnts  liew  on  ;  still  she  came  not. 

Losing  patience  at  last,  he  caught  the  bell- 
rope  and  rang  a  furious  peal.  Five  minutes  after  the 
black  face  and  woolly  head  of  Totty  appeared  in  the 
door- way. 

"  Totty,  Where's  your  young  mistress  ?" 
"  Here  !"  answered  the  voice  of  Gipsy  herself,  as  she 
stood,  bright  and  smiling,  behind  Totty. 

Somehow,  that  smile  alarmed  the  old  man,  and  he 
began  trembling  for  the  decision  he  had  so  anxiously 
been  expecting. 

"Well,  come  in.  Clear  out,  Totty.  Now,  Gipsy,  your 
decision." 

''Now,  Guardy,  wait  until  after  breakfast.  How  is 
any  one  to  form  an  opinion  on  an  empty  stomach,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?  There,  don't  get  into  a  fidget  about  it,  ai 
I  see  you're  going  to  do,  because  it's  no  use." 


THE    BIRD    CAGED. 


««J 


&ftei  her. 
11  what  I 


ic  break- 

the  com- 
The  mo- 

the  bell- 
after  the 
d  in  the 


If,  as  she 

,  and  he 
nxiously 

psy,your 

How  is 
nach,  I'd 
3ut  it,  ai 


«« 


« 


But,  Gipsy,  tell  me — will  it  be  favorable  Y* 
That  depends  upon  circumstances.  If  I  have  a  good 
appetite  for  my  breakfast  I  may  probably  be  in  good- 
humoi  enough  to  say  yes  to  ever^'ching  you  propose  ;  if 
not,  I  trembic  for  you,  Guardy,  Visions  of  blunt  pen- 
knives and  bulletlcss  pistols  flash  in  *  awful  array'  before 
rny  mind's  eye.  Shall  I  ring  the  bell  for  Aunty  Gower  ?" 

**  I  suppose  so,"  growled  the  old  man  ;  "  you  are  ac 
contrary  as  Balaam's  ass." 

"  Guardy,  look  out !  Don't  compare  me  to  any  of 
your  ancestors." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Gower  entered,  followed  by 
Lizzie,  now  an  invalid,  wrapped  up  in  numberless  shawls, 
until  she  resembled  a  mummy. 

The  squire  had  informed  them  both,  the  night  before, 
how  matters  stood ;  and  they  glanced  anxiously  at 
Gipsy,  as  they  entered,  to  read,  if  possible,  her  decision 
in  her  countenance.  Nothing  could  they  guess  from 
that  little  dark,  sparkling  face,  as  vivacious  and  merry 
as  ever. 

When  breakfast  was  over  Mrs.  Gower  and  Mrs. 
Oranmore  quitted  the  room,  leaving  Gipsy  alone  with 
the  squire. 

"  Now,  Gipsy,  now,"  he  exclaimed,  impatiently. 

"  Guardy,"  said  Gipsy,  earnestly,  "  all  last  night  I  lay 
awake,  trying  to  find  out  where  my  path  of  duty  lay ; 
jind,  Guardy,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  can- 
not add  to  your  sin,  if  you  have  committed  one,  by  a 
still  greater  crime.  I  cannot  perjure  myself,  before 
God's  holy  altar,  even  to  save  you.  Guaruy,  I  always 
loathed  and  detested  this  man — this  Dr.  Wiseman  ;  and 
now  I  would  sooner  die  by  slow  torture  than  be  his  wife. 
Your  threat  cf  suicide  I  know  you  will  not  fulfill — 'twas 
but  idle  words.  But  even  had  you  been  serious,  it  would 
W  all  the  same  ;  for  sooner  than  niarry  that  man  I  would 


;r 


l«l 


♦ 


'ii 


•t4 


r/TB    BTRD    CAGRDk 


plunge  a  dug^ger  into  my  own  heart  and  let  cut  my  llfc'i 
blood.  I  do  not  speak  hastily,  for  I  have  done  that 
which  I  seldom  do — thought  before  I  spoke.  If  we 
really,  as  you  say,  become  poor,  I  am  willing  to  leave 
tny  wild,  free  life,  my  horses,  hounds,  and  the  *  merry 
greenwood,.'  to  become  a  toiling  kitchen  brownie  for 
your  sake.  Do  not  interrupt  me,  Guardy  ;  nothing  you 
can  say  can  change  my  purpose.  I  am  not  ungrateful 
but  I  cannot  commit  a  crime  in  the  face  of  high  heaven, 
even  for  the  sake  of  those  I  love  best.  Tell  my  decision 
to  Dr.  Wiseman.  And  now,  Guardy,  this  subject  must 
be  forever  dropped  between  us,  for  you  have  heard  ray 
ultimatum." 

And  without  /aiti ng  for  the  words  that  were  ready 
to  burst  forth,  she  arose,  bent  her  graceful  little  head, 
and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

As  she  went  up-stairs,  on  her  way  to  her  own  room, 
she  passed  Lizzie's  chamber.  Mrs.  Oranmore  caught 
sight  of  her  through  the  half-opened  door,  and  called 
her. 

"  Gipsy,  my  love,  come  in  here." 

Gipsy  went  in.  It  was  a  pleasant,  cheerful  room, 
with  bright  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  rich  crimsoi: 
damask  hangings  in  the  window.  Lizzie  Oranmore,  as 
fl^e  lies  on  h^r  lounge,  enveloped  in  a  large,  soft  shawl, 
fs  not  much  like  the  Lizzie,  the  bright  little  coquette, 
w  3  once  knew.  A  pale,  faded  creature  she  is  now,  with 
fallow  cheeks,  and  thin,  pinched  face. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Oranmore,  anxiously, 
"  papa  has  mentioned  this  shocking  affair  to  rac.  What 
has  been  your  answer  to  D  •.  Wiseman's  proposal?" 

"  Oh,  aunty,  what  could  it  be  but  no  t  You  didn't 
•uppose  I'd  many  that  ugly  old  daddy-long-legs,  did 
you  ?  Why,  aunty,  when  i  get  marned — which  I  never 
will  if  I  can  help  it — for  I  would  be  ever  free— it  must  bs 


THE    BIRD    CAGSJD. 


■«l 


to  a  lord,  dul:c,  or  a  Sir  Harry,  or  something  mbove  th« 
common.  Just  fancy  such  a  little  bit  of  a  thing  like  me 
boini^  tied  for  life  to  a  detestable  old  Bluebeard  like 
Spider.  Net  I,  indeed  !"  said  the  elf,  at  fbe  danced 
around  the  room  and  gayly  sang  : 

'*  An  old  man,  an  old  man,  will  never  do  for  in«, 
For  iviay  and  December  can  never  agree." 

**  But  Gipsy,  my  dear,  do  you  not  know  that  we  are 
to  be  turned  out,  if  you  refuse  ?"  said  Lizzie,  in  blank 
dismay. 

"  Well,  let  us  be  turned  out,  then.  I  will  be  turned 
out,  but  I  won't  marry  that  old  death's-head.  I'm  young 
and  smart,  and  able  to  earn  my  own  living,  thank  good- 
ness !" 

'*  Oh,  ungrateful  girl,  will  you  see  me  die  ?  For, 
Gipsy,  if  I  am  deprived  now,  in  my  illness,  of  the  com- 
forts to  which  I  have  always  been  accustomed,  I  shall 
die." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,  aunty.  I  don't  think  that  things 
are  as  bad  as  Guardy  makes  them  appear  ;  and,  even  if 
they  were.  Dr.  Wiseman,  old  wretcn  as  ne  is,  would  let 
you  remain." 

"No,  he  would  not,  child;  you  don't  know  the  re- 
vengeful disposition  of  that  man.  Oh,  Gipsy,  by  the 
nnomory  of  all  we  have  done  for  you,  I  beseech  you  to 
nonscnt !" 

''  Aunty,  aunty,  I  cannot ;  it  is  too  dreadful  even  to 
think  about.  Oh,  aunty,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  loathe, 
abhor,  and  detest  that  hideous  old  sinner  !" 

"  Gipsy,  that  is  wrong — that  is  sinful.  Dr.  Wisemaa 
is  a  highly  respectable  gentleman — rather  old  for  you,  it 
is  true — but  of  what  difference  is  a  few  years?  He  la 
rich,  and  loves  you  well  enough  to  gratify  your  ever; 
wiih.    What  more  would  you  have  ?" 

10* 


t 

1 

I 

1 

1  . 
i 

'! 

|: 

i 

1 

» 

■ '  i 

» 


I      «' 


li   " 


t'.   ■  t 


aa6 


THE    BIRD    CAGED. 


**  Happiness,  annty.  I  should  be  atterl/  iniiermbl« 
with  him." 

"Nonsense,  child,  you  only  think  so.     It  is  not  as  if 
you  were  older,  and  loved  somebody  else.     People  Dftci. 
marry  those  they  don't  care  about,  and  grow  quite  foivi 
of  them  after  .n  time.     Now,   1   shouldn't  be  surprised  : 
you  grew  quite  fond  of  Dr.  Wiseman  by  and  by." 

Gipsy  lauLjhed  her  own  merry  laugh  again  as  si.;. 
heard  Lizzie's  words 

"Oh,  Gipsy,  you  thouglitless  creature!  is  this  your 
bnswer  to  my  petition  ?"  said  Lizzie,  putting  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes.  "  Leave  me,  then.  I  will  not  long 
survive  your  ingratitude  ;  but,  mark  me,  your  name  will 
Decome  a  by-word,  far  and  near,  and  descend  to  posterity 
branded  with  the  disgrace  of  your  ungrateful  conduct. 
Go — leave  me  !  Wliy  should  you  stay  to  witness  the 
misery  you  have  caused?" 

Poor  Gipsy  !  how  these  reproaches  stung  ner.  She 
started  to  her  feet,  and  began  pacing  the  floor  rapidly, 
crying  wildly  : 

"Oh,  Heaven  help  me  I  I  know  not  what  to  do  !  I 
wish  I  were  dead,  sooner  than  be  branded  thus  as  an  in- 
gr  ite !" 

Lizzie's  sobs  alone  broke  the  stillness  of  the  room, 
it  last,  unable  to  endure  them  longer,  she  rushed  out 
and  sought  refuge  in  her  own  chamber.  As  she  entered 
she  saw  Mrs.  Gower  seated  by  the  window — a  look  of 
trouble  and  sadness  on  her  usually  happy,  good-natured 
face. 

'•  Oh  !  aunty,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Oh  !  aunty,  I  am  going 
crazy,  I  think  !"  cried  Gipsy,  distressedly,  half  maddened 
by  the  sight  of  Lizzie's  tears. 

"My  clear,  it  is  very  plain  what  you  must  do.  You 
must  marry  Dr.  Wiseman,"  said  Mrs.  Gower,  gravely. 

"  Oh  !  aunty,  have  you  turned  aj^ainst  me»  too  ?    'Then 


I 


miierable 

I  not  as  a 

!ople  Dfter. 
quite  fonJ 
urpris::i 

>y" 

ain  as  &!.:: 

this  your 

her  hand- 

1  not  long 

-  name  will 

0  posterity 

1  conduct, 
vitness  the 

ner.  She 
or  rapidly, 

t  to  do  !  I 
IS  as  an  in^ 

the  room, 
rushed  out 
she  entered 
—a  look  of 
od-natureti 

I  am  going 
maddened 

t  do.    You 
gravely. 
oo?    Then 


r//E    BIRD    CAG£J>. 


••I 


I 

i 

I 


I  hive  no  friend  in  the  wide  world  I    Oh !     wlih— •/  mfisA 

I  had  never  been  born  !" 

"  My  love,  don't  tiilk  n  that  way  ;  it  is  aot  only  very 
foolish,  but  vei/  sinful.  Dr.  Wiseman  is  certainly  not 
the  man  I  would  wish  to  see  you  married  to;  but,  you 
perceive,  there  is  no  alternative.  Gipsy,  I  am  getting 
old,  so  is  the  squire  ;  Mrs.  CJranmore  is  ill,  and  I  do  not 
think  she  will  live  long.  Will  you,  therefore,  allow  the 
old  man  and  woman — who  love  you  above  all  human 
beings — and  a  poor,  weak  invalid,  to  be  turned  upon  the 
charity  of  the  cold  world  to  die?  Gipsy,  you  know  if 
we  could  save  you  from  misery,  we  would  coin  our  very 
hearts'  blood  to  do  it." 

"  And,  oh,  aunt !  could  there  be  greater  misery  foi 
me  than  that  to  which  you  are  urging  me?" 

"  You  talk  like  the  thoughtless  girl  you  arc,  Gipsy. 
How  often,  for  wealth  oi  social  position  merely,  or  to 
raise  their  friends  from  want,  do  young  girls  marry  old 
men  !  Yet,  you  refuse  to  save  us  from  worse  than  want, 
from  disgrace  and  death — yes,  death  I  I  know  what  I  am 
saying,  Gipsy — you  obstinately  refuse.  Gipsy,  my  child, 
for  my  sake  do  not  become  such  a  monster  of  ingrati- 
tude, but  consent." 

"Oh,  aunty!  leave  me.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going 
mad  !  Every  one  in  the  world  seems  to  have  turned 
against  me — even  you  /  Oh,  aunty,  dear,  good  aunty  ! 
don't  talk  to  me  any  more ;  my  very  brain  seems  on 
fire." 

"  Yes  ;  your  cheeks  are  burning,  and  your  eyes  arc 
like  fire — you  are  ill  and  feverish,  my  poor  little  fairy. 
Lie  down,  and  let  me  bathe  your  head." 

"  No,  no,  aunty,  don't  mind.  Oh  {  what  matter  is  it 
whether  I  am  ill  or  not?  If  it  wasn't  for  you,  and 
Guardy,  and  ail  the  rest,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  li« 
down  and  die !" 


ii?fll 


I  ,  ,     '    \ 


»H     . 


;  .<  ■ 


I 


■  1.'-;,.         » 


W. 


■  I 


m 


t 


(;  I 


I  n 


M« 


Tir£    BTRD    CAGSB. 


"  My  own  little  daring,  you  must  not  talk  ol  dying ; 
every  one  has  trouble  in  this  world,  and  you  cannot  ex- 
pect to  escape  !" 

"  Yes  ;  I  know,  I  know  !  Hitherto,  life  has  been  to 
me  a  fairy  dream  •  and  now  this  terrible  awakening  to 
reality  I  Life  setaied  to  me  one  long,  golden  summer 
day  ;  and  now — and  now " 

"  You  are  excited,  love  ;  lie  down,  and  try  to  sleep—, 
you  talk  too  much." 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  I  always  did  talk  too  much  ;  but  I  do 
not  think  I  will  ever  talk  much  again.  Oh,  aunty  !  I 
have  heard  of  the  heart-ache,  but  I  never  knew  what  it 
was  before  !" 

"  My  love,  you  must  not  feel  this  so  deeply.  How 
wild  your  eyes  are !  and  your  hands  are  burning  hot  I 
Do  lie  down,  and  try  to  rest." 

"  Rest !  rest !     Shall  I  ever  find  rest  again?*' 

"  Of  course  you  will,  my  dear.  Now  what  shall  I 
tell  the  squire  is  your  decision  about  this  ?  I  promised 
him  to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

"  Oh,  aunty,  don'i — don't !  Leave  me  alone^  and  let 
me  think — I  cannot  talk  to  you  now  !" 

"  Shall  I  bring  you  up  ice  for  your  head,  my  dear  ?*' 

"  No,  no ;  you  have  already  brought  ice  for  my  heart, 
aunty — that  is  enough." 

"  You  talk  wildly,  love ;  I  am  afraid  your  mind  is 
nJisoracred.'* 

*'  Don't  mind  my  talk,  dear  aunty,  I  always  was  a 
crazy,  elfish  changeling,  without  a  heart,  you  know. 
Nobody  minds  what  I  say.  Only  leave  mc  now ;  I  will 
be  better  by  and  by." 

With  a  sigh  Mrs.  Gower  left  the  room.  It  was 
strange  that,  loving  her  poor  little  fay  as  she  did,  she 
should  urge  her  to  this  wretched  marriage ;  but  the 
•quire  had  talked  and  persuaded  her  until  he  brought  hex 


»ur  mind  is 


THE    BIRD    CAGED. 


«M 


to  «ce  the  matter  with  his  eyes.  And  poor  Gipsy  w^as 
left  alone  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room  like  oae  de- 
ranged, wringing  her  hands,  while  her  cheeks  and  eyes 
burned  wilii  the  fire  of  fever. 

'*  Oil,  if  Archie  wculd  only  come  !"  was  the  wild  cry 
if  her  aching  heart,  as  she  walked  restlessly  to  and  fro. 

But  Archie  was  away  ;  she  knew  not  even  his  present 
addre  ,  and  she  was  left  to  battle  against  the  dark  decree 
of  fate  alone. 

'*!  will  seek  Dr.  Wiseman  ;  I  will  beg,  I  will  implore 
him  to  spare  me,  and  those  who  would  have  me  make 
this  fatal  sacrifice.  Surely  his  heart  is  not  made  of 
stone  ;  he  cannot  resist  my  prayers  !" 

So,  waiting  in  her  room  until  she  saw  him  ride  up  tc 
the  Hall,  she  descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  parlor, 
where  he  and  the  squire  sat  in  close  conversation  to- 
gether, and  formally  desired  the  honor  of  a  private  inter- 
view. 

He  arose,  and,  bowing,  followed  her  into  the  draw- 
mg-room.  Motioning  him  to  a  scat  she  stood  before 
him,  her  little  form  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  her  de- 
fiant, dark  eyes  fixed  on  his  repulsive  face  with  undis- 
guised loathing. 

"Dr.  Wiseman."  she  began,  "I  haye  heard  of  this 
proposal  which  you  have  honored  me  by  making.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  fully  appreciate  the  honor  you  have  done 
me '"—and  her  beautiful  lip  curled  scornfully — "even 
wliile  I  must  decline  it.  A  silly  little  girl  like  me  is  un- 
worthy to  be  raised  to  the  dignity  of  the  wife  of  so  dis- 
tinguished a  gentleman  as  Dr.  Wiseman  !" 

The  doctor  acknowledged  the  compliment  by*  g^ave 
bow,  while  Gipsy  continued  : 

"  My  guardian  has  informed  me  that,  unless  I  consent 
to  this  union  he  will  lose  Mount  Sunset,  be  i educed  to 
poTerty,  and  consequently,  die,  he  says.    You,  it  seema^ 


1  '  ,-  ;  •  •; 


» 


'A  .-»' 


■    ta*  ■  '  -•  *  1 


t   .....:  f^     , 

* 

'-M''*-': 

'» 

V 

»  ■     ■' 

"1     *      - 

■^ 

-^. 

* 

1 

'h 

ir^-. 

■i 

•'V;--.- 

% 

'.•5l/*'* 


-i    • 


U\ 


V 


m 


''« 


1 , 1 


*$o 


THE    BIRD    CAGED, 


wiL  prevent  this,  if  I  marry  you.  >Jow,  Dr.  Wueinao, 
knowin<T^  this  marriage  is  not  ag:reeable  to  me,  I  feel  that 
you  will  withdraw  your  claim  to  my  hand,  and  still  pre 
vent  Guardy  from  being  reduced  to  poverty  !'* 

*'  Miss  Govver,  I  regret  to  say  I  cannot  do  so.  Unless 
rou  become  my  wife,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  let  the  law 
.-kc  its  course  ;  and  all  that  Squire  Erliston  has  told 
/cu  will  pro\e  true." 

"Dr.  Wiseman,  you  will  not  be  so  cruel  ?  I  beg — I 
implore  you  to  prevent  this  catastrophe  !" 

"I  will,  with  pleasure,  Miss  Gower,  if  you  will  be 
my  wife." 

"  That  I  can  never  be.  Dr.  V'iseman  !  I  would  not,  to 
save  my  head  from  the  block,  consent  to  such  a  thing ! 
What  in  the  name  of  heaven  can  make  a  man  of  your 
age  wish  to  marry  a  silly  little  thing  like  me  ?" 

*'  Love,,  my  pretty  mountain  sprite,"  replied  the  doc- 
tor, with  a  grim  smile — ^'  love  /  Years  do  not  freeze  the 
blood,  nor  still  the  heart  of  man  !" 

"  Then,  sir,  if  you  love  me,  renounce  all  claim  upon 
my  hand,  and  save  my  guardian  from  impending  ruin  !" 

"  That  I  can  never  do  !" 

"  Be  it  so,  then.  Dr.  Wiseman.  To  you  I  will  plead 
no  more.  Let  us  be  turned  out ;  I  would  die  a  death  of 
lingering  starvation  sooner  than  wed  with  a  cold-blooded 
monster  like  you  !"'  exclaimed  Gipsy,  her  old  fiery  spirit 
alashing  from  her  eyes  and  radiating  her  fc.^e. 

"  And  will  you  see  those  you  love  die,  too  Y* 

"  Yes,  even  so  ;  sooner  than  realize  the  living  tomb 
of  a  marriage  with  you  I" 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  All  very  fine  and  affectionate,  my 
dear  ;  yet,  marry  me  you  shall T 

"Mirryyou?  Not  if  I  die  for  it !"  flashed  Gipsy 
vith  blazing  eyes 

That  we  shall  see  presently.  I  think  I  have  an  argu- 


;'■';:  i;':':«^ 


THE    BIRD    CAGSD. 


•ji 

Yoa 


ment  in  reserve  that  will  bend  your  high  tpiiit 
love  Archie  Rivers?" 

"  That  is  no  business  of  yours,  Dr.  Wiseman  I" 

"No;  no  farther  than  that  I  am  glad  of  it.  Ncse, 
Gipsy  Gowcr,  I  swear  by  all  the  heavens  contain,  unless 
you  marry  me,  he  shall  die  on  the  scaffold/** 

"  What?"  gasped  Gipsy,  appalled  by  his  low,  feailul 
tone,  even  more  than  by  his  words. 

"  I  say  there  is  but  one  alternative  ;  marry  me,  or  see 
him  die  on  the  scaffold  !" 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  that's  excellent  Are  you  going  to  hang 
him,  Dr.  Wiseman  ?"  mocked  Gipsy. 

"  Laugh,  girl ;  but  beware  !  It  is  in  ray  power  to 
bring  his  head  to  the  halter !" 

"Where,  if  everybody  had  their  dues,  yours  would 
have  been  long  ago." 

"Take  care,  madam  ;  don't  carry  your  taunts  too  fai 
—even  my  forbearance  has  its  limits  !" 

*'  That's  more  than  can  be  said  of  your  manners  i" 

The  doctor's  sallow  visage  blanched  with  anger  ;  but, 
subduing  his  wrath,  he  said  : 

"  I  can  accuse  him  of  the  murder  of  young  Henry 
Danvers,  who  was  so  mysteriously  killed.  There  is  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  against  him  strong  enough  to  con- 
vict him  in  any  court  of  justice  in  the  world  !" 

"  Archie  kill  Danvers  ?  Why,  you  horrid  old  monster, 
you  I  Ain't  you  afraid  of  the  fate  of  Ananias  and  his 
:cttcr  half,  who  never  told  half  such  a  lie  in  their  rves  ?' 

"  L»e  or  not,  girl,  it  can  be  proved  that  he  killed  him 
Listen,  now,"  said  the  doctor,  while  his  repilsive  face 
lighted  up  with  a  look  of  fiendish  exultation.  "Aichi- 
bald  Rivers  i<>ved  you — that  was  plain  to  every  one. 
This  Danvers  came  along  and  fell  in  lo'^e  with  you,  toe 
— that,  likewise,  can  be  duly  proved,  ^our  preference 
for  the  young  sailor  was  observable  from  the  first.    Ri* 


-w 

W 

1 

f 

■  I' 

i           ■■ 

'r.  ■ 

Hfv! 

IP 

If  V    -. 

IW 

%     '               ,■ 

1*1 

,'•;. 

■   1 

'1 

♦ 


'  ; 

'■  '  1 

V 

t      »• 

f  1 

::M 

U?' 

' 

■i 

1 


I ' 


'    ti 


«32 


rjy^'    i?7^Z>    CAGED, 


ers  was  jealous,  and  I  know  many  who  can  prove  ac  of 
ten  uttered  threavS  of  future  vengeance  against  the  mid 
shipman.  On  the  oiglit  of  the  murder y  Archie  was  ob- 
served riding  from  here,  in  a  violent  rage.  Half  an  hour 
afterward  the  sailor  went  for  a  ride  over  the  hills.  I  can 
%u:£ar  that  Archie  Rivers  followed  him.  I  know  he  was 
not  at  home  until  late.  Most  probably,  therefore,  he 
followed  Diinvers,  and  murdered  him  treacherously. 
Jealousy  will  make  a  man  do  almost  anythinp^.  In  a 
court  of  justice,  many  more  things  than  this  can  be 
proved  ;  and  if  he  dies  on  the  scaffold,  his  blood  will  be 
upon  your  head." 

Gipsy  stood  listening  to  his  terrible  words  with 
blanched  face,  livid  lips,  and  horror-stricken  eyes.  For  a 
moment  he  thought  she  would  faint.  The  very  power  of 
life  seemed  stricken  from  her  heart ;  but,  by  a  powerful 
effoit,  she  aroused  herself  from  the  deadly  faintness 
creeping  over  her,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  low  with 
unspeakable  horror  : 

"  Fiend — demon  incarnate  !  would  you  perjure  your 
own  £  Dul !  Would  you  become  the  murderer  of  your 
own  nephew  ?" 

"  Murderer,  forsooth  !  Is  that  what  you  call  legal 
justice  ?" 

"  It  would  not  be  legal  justice !  Doctor  Wiseman, 
]  tell  you,  if  you  say  Archie  Rivers  killed  Danvers, 
j^ou  He  !  Yes,  meanest  of  vile  wretches,  I  tell  you,  you 
He  !" 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  glaring  with  rage,  as  though 
he  would  spring  upon  her,  and  rend  her  limb  from  limb. 
Before  him  she  stood,  her  little  form  drawn  dp  to  its 
full  height,  deliant  and  daring — her  dark  fac<,  glaring 
with  scorn  and  hatred.  For  a  moment  they  stood  thus 
—-he  quivering  with  impotent  rage— she,  proud,  defying, 


:i;i 


THE    BIRD    CAGED. 


333 


and  (earless.  Then,  sinking  into  his  seat,  le  said,  with 
istern  calmness  : 

''  No — I  will  restrain  myself ;  but,  daring  giri,  listen 
to  me.  As  sure  as  yonder  heaven  is  above  us,  if  you 
reiuse,  so  surely  sliall  Squire  Erliston  and  all  belong' 
ing  to  Iiini  be  turned  from  their  home — to  die,  if  they 
will  ;  and  A'-chibald  Rivers  shall  perish  by  the  hand  of 
the  hangman,  scorned  and  hated  by  all,  and  knowing 
that  you,  for  whom  he  would  have  given  his  life,  have 
brought  him  to  the  scaffold,  Gipsy  Gower,  his  blood 
will  cry  for  vengeance  from  the  earth  against  you  !" 

He  ceased.  There  was  a  wild,  thrilling,  intense  sol- 
emnity in  his  tone,  that  made  the  blood  curdle.  One 
look  at  his  fiendish  face  would  have  made  you  think 
Satan  himself  was  before  you. 

And  Gipsy  !  She  had  dropped,  as  if  suddenly  stricken 
by  an  unseen  hand,  to  the  floor  ;  her  face  changed  to  the 
ghastly  hue  of  death,  the  light  dying  out  in  her  eyes  . 
her  very  life  seemed  passing  away  from  the  blue,  quiver- 
ing lips,  from  which  no  sound  came  ;  a  thousand  ages 
of  suffering  seemed  concentrated  in  that  one  single  mo- 
ment of  intense  anguish. 

But  no  spark  of  pity  entered  the  heart  that  exulted 
in  her  agony.  No  ;  a  demoniacal  joy  flashed  from  his 
snake-like  eyes  as  he  beheld  that  free,  wild,  untamed 
spirit  broken  at  last,  and  lying  in  anguish  at  his  feet. 

"This  struggle  is  the  last.  Now  she  will  yield,"  war? 
his  thought,  as  he  watched  her. 

"  Gipsy  !"  he  called. 

She  writhed  at  the  sound  of  his  Toice. 

"  Gipsy  !"  he  called  again. 

This  time  she  looked  up,  lifting  a  face  so  like  that  of 
death  that  he  started  back  involuntarily. 

''  What  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  low,  hollow  voice  of  do< 
•pair. 


I 


^% 


i 


n' 

'      I 

'    r 

\f' 

a  r 

m 

t  "' 

ITil, 

1 

1' 

•n 


.];.. 


h 

{\ 

l" 

■■' 

■  f* 

> 

\ 

-, 

' 

t 

i 

j 

'  1 

i 

> 

]' 

1 

1 

.1 

i!  . 


'l       -iM 


:'•  1 1 


»■.  ,  •■■  !      ■ 


M4 


s«- 


TWi^    -9y^Z?    CAG£D. 

"  Do  you  consent  ?" 

She  arose,  and  walked  over  until  she  sicod  before 
him.  Appalled  by  her  look,  he  arose  in  alarm  and  drew 
back. 

'*  Consent !"  she  repeated,  fixing  her  wi.d  eyes  on  his 
frightened  face  ;  *'  yes,  I  consent  to  the  living  death  of  a 
T.arri.ige  with  you.  And,  Dr.  Wiseman,  mar  my  curse 
.jr:d  the  curse  of  Heaven  cling  to  you  like  a  garment  of 
lire,  now  and  forevermore,  burning  your  miserable  soul 
like  a  flame  in  this  life,  and  consigning  you  to  everlast- 
ing perdition  in  the  next !  May  every  torture  and  suf- 
ferinQ  that  man  can  know  follow  the  wronged  orphan's 
cu;se  !  In  this  life  I  will  be  your  deadliest  enemy,  and 
in  the  next  I  will  bear  witness  against  you  at  the  throne 
of  God  I  To  your  very  grave,  and  beyond,  my  undying 
hatred  and  revenge  i<\\  the  wrong  you  have  done  me 
shall  be  yours  ;  and  now  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  bride  !" 

She  passed  from  the  room  like  a  spirit ;  and  Dr. 
Wiseman,  terrified  and  appalled,  sank  into  a  chair,  with 
the  vision  of  tliat  death-like  face,  with  its  blazing  eyes 
and  wild,  maniac  words  and  wilder  stare,  haunting  him 
until  he  shuddered  with  superstitious  terror. 

♦*  What  a  wife  I  will  have !"  he  muttered ;  "a  perfect 
little  fiend.  Mount  Sunset  will  be  dearly  enough  pur- 
chased with  that  young  tempest  for  its  mistress.  The 
Sery  spirit  of  the  old  Oranmores  runs  in  her  veins— 
f hat's  certain.  And  now,  as  there  is  nothing  like  strik- 
injcr  the  iron  while  it's  hot,  I'll  go  and  report  my  success 
ic>  that  old  dotard,  the  squire,  and  have  the  wedding-day 
f>jr»d  as  ::.oon  as  possible  " 


MAY    AND     DECEMBJUt. 


til 


■  '  !■  ■ 


f  ::. 


f      11'     i 


cod  before 
1  and  drew 

yes  on  his 
death  of  a 
my  curse 
arment  of 
Table  soul 
everlast- 
and  suf^ 
d  orphan's 
nemy,  and 
the  throne 
y  undying 
B  done  me 
ir  bride !" 
;  and  Dr. 
chair,  with 
azing  eyes 
nting  him 

*a  perfect 
ough  pur- 
ress.  The 
ler  veins — 
like  strik- 
ay  success 
dding-day 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


MAY     AND     DECEMBIR. 


*  8he  looked  to  the  river — looked  to  the  hill— 
And  thought  on  the  spirit's  prophecy  ; 
Then  broke  the  sileiict;  stern  and  still : 
*  Not  you,  but  Fr'.e,  has  vanquished  me.'" 

Lay  op  thk  Last  Mikstux. 

lELESTE,  Celeste !  do  not  leave  me.  Oh  ! 
all  the  world  has  left  me,  and  will  you 
go,  too  ?  This  heart — this  re-stless,  beating 
heart — will  it  never  stop  aching?  Oh,  Ce- 
leste !  once  I  thought  I  had  no  heart ;  but 
by  this  dull,  aching  pain  where  it  should  be,  I  know 
I  must  have  had  one  some  time.  Stay  with  me.  Ce- 
leste. You  are  the  only  one  in  the  world  left  for  me 
to  love  now." 

Gipsy — small,  fair  and  fragile,  with  her  little  wan 
face  and  unnaturally  lustrous  eyes — lay  mo.ining  rest- 
lessly on  her  low  couch,  like  some  tempest-tossed  soul 
quivering  between  life  and  death.  Like  an  angel  of 
light,  by  her  side  knelt  Celeste,  with  her  fair,  pitying 
fact  and  her  soft  blue  eyes,  from  which  the  tears  fell 
on  the  small  brown  fingers  that  tightly  clasped  hers. 

"  Dear  Gipsy,  I  will  not  leave  you ;  but  you  know 
fou  must  get  up  and  dress  soon.** 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  not  yet.  It  is  so  nice  to  lie  here,  and 
have  you  bsside  me.  I  am  so  tired,  Celeste — I  have 
never  rested  since  I  made  that  promise.  It  seems  as  if 
ever  since  I  had  been  walking  and  walking  on  through 
tlie  dark,  unable  to  stop,  with  such  an  aching  here.'* 
And  she  pressed  her  hand  to  the  poor  quivering  heart 


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that  was  fluttering  to  escape  from  the  heavy  chain  fate 

was  drawing  tigiuer  and  tighter  around  it. 

"  What  ran  I  do  for  you,  Cipsy  ?"  said  Celeste,  stoop- 
ing and  kissing  her  pale  lips,  while  two  pitying  drops 
Kcl!  frv->m  her  eyes  on  the  poor  little  face  below  her. 

"  Don't  cry  for  me,  Celeste.  I  never  wept  for  myself 
yet.  Sing  ior  me,  dear  friend,  the  '  Evening  Hymn  '  wc 
used  to  sing  at  the  Sisters'  school,  long  ago." 

Forcing  back  her  tears.  Celeste  sang,  in  a  voice  low 
and  sweet  as  liquid  music  : 

"Ave  sanctissima  I 

We  lilt  our  souls  to  thee— 
Ora  pro  nobis, 

Bright  star  of  the  sea  ! 
Watch  us  while  shadows  lie 

Far  o'er  the  waters  spread  ; 
Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh— 

Thine,  too,  hath  bled  l" 

Gipsy  listened,  with  her  eyes  closed,  an  expression 
of  peace  and  rest  falling  on  her  dark,  restless  face,  until 
Celeste  ceased. 

"  h,  Celeste,  I  always  feel  so  much  better  uud  hap- 
pier when  you  are  with  me — not  half  so  much  of  a  heart- 
less imp  as  at  other  times,"  said  Gipsy,  opening  her 
eyes.  "I  wish  I  could  go  and  live  with  you  and  Miss 
liagar  at  Valley  Cottage,  or  enter  a  convent,  or  any- 
where, to  be  at  peace.  While  you  sang  I  almost  fancieu 
aayself  back  again  at  school,  listening  to  those  dear, 
kind  sisters  singing  that  beautiful  *  Evening  Hymn.'  " 

She  paused,  avid  murmured,  dreamily: 

*  Watch  us  while  shadows  lie 
Far  o'er  the  waters  spread  ; 
Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh — 
Thine,  too,  hath  bled  1'^ 

"  Dear  Gipsy,  do  not  be  so  sad.  Our  Heavenly 
Father,  perhaps,  has  but  sent  you  this  trial  ^o  |mrify  your 


MAY    AND    DECBMMEM, 


m 


heart  and  make  it  His  own.     In  the  time  of  jt^u.r.  and 

happiness  we  are  apt  ungratefully  to  forget  the  Author 
of  all  good  gifts,  and  yield  the  heart  that  should  be 
His  to  idols  of  clay.  But  ic»  the  days  of  sorrow  and 
suffering  we  stretch  out  our  arms  to  Him  ;  and  He,  for- 
getting the  past,  takes  us  to  his  bosom.  And,  dearest 
Gipsy,  shall  we  shrink  from  treading  through  trials  and 
sufferings  in  the  steps  of  the  sinless  Son  of  God,  to 
that  home  of  rest  and  peace  that  He  died  to  gain  for 
us?" 

Her  beautiful  face  was  transfigured,  her  eyes  radiant, 
her  lips  glowing  with  the  fervor  of  the  deep  devotion 
with  which  she  spoke. 

"I  cannot  feel  as  you  do,  Celeste,  said  Gipsy, turning 
restlessly.  *'  I  feel  like  one  without  a  light,  groping  my 
way  in  the  dark — like  one  who  is  blind,  hastening  to  my 
own  doom.  I  cannot  look  up ;  I  can  see  into  the  dark 
grave,  but  no  farther." 

"  Light  will  come  yet,  dear  friend.  Every  cloud  has 
Its  silver  lining." 

"  Never  for  me.     But,  hark  !     What  is  that  ?" 

Celeste  arose,  and  went  to  the  window. 

"  It  is  the  carriages  bringing  more  people.  The  par- 
lors below  are  full.  You  must  rise,  8i::id  dress  for  your 
bridal,  Gipsy." 

"  Would  to  heaven  it  were  for  my  burial !  I  am  m 
tired,  Celeste.    Must  I  get  up  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  Gipsy  ;  they  are  waiting  for  you.  I  will 
dress  you  myself,"  said  Celeste,  as  Gipsy,  pale,  wan,  and 
spirituelle,  arose  from  her  couch,  her  little,  slight  figure 
smaller  and  slighter  than  ever. 

Rapidly  moved  the  nimble  fingers  of  Celeste.  The 
dancing  dark  locks  fell  in  short,  shining  curls  around 
the  superb  little  head,  making  the  pale  face  of  the  bride 
look  paler  still  by  contrast     Then  Celeste  went  into  her 


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AfAV    AN-D    DECEMBSR. 


wardrobe  and  brought  forth  the  jewels,  the  white  vail, 
the  orange  blossoms,  iiiul  the  rich  rcbes  of  while  bro 
cade,  frosted  with  seed  pearls,  and  laid  them  on  the  bcl 

"What  IS  that  white  dress  for?"  demanded  Gipsy, 
abruptly,  looking  up  from  a  reverie  into  which  she  had 
(alien . 

""  Kor  you  to  wear,  of  course,"  replied  Celeste,  as- 
tonished at  the  question. 

'*A  wlute  drcis  for  me!  Ha!  ha!  ha!"  she  said, 
with  a  wilJ  laugh.  "  True,  I  forgot — when  the  ancients 
were  about  to  sacnfico  a  victim,  they  robed  her  in  white 
and  crowned  her  with  I'owers.  But  I  will  differ  from  all 
other  victims,  and  wear  a  more  suitable  color.  Thix 
shall  be  my  wedding-dress,"  said  Gipsy,  leaving  the 
room,  and  returning  with  a  dress  of  black  lace. 

Celeste  sliiank  bajk  from  its  ominous  hue  with  some- 
thing like  a  shudder. 

*'  Oh,  not  in  black  !  Oh,  Gipsy  !  any  other  color  but 
black  for  your  wedding.  Think  how  you  will  shock 
every  one,"  saiil  Celeste,  imploringly. 

"  Shock  them  !  Why,  Celeste,  I've  shocked  them  so 
continually  ever  since  I  was  a  year  old,  that  when  I  cease 
to  shock  them  they  won't  know  Gipsy  Gower.  And  that 
reminds  me  that  after  to-day  I  will  be  'Mad  Gips) 
Gower '  no  longer,  but  Mrs.  Doctor  Nicholas  Wiseman 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Wiseman  !  how  appropriate  the  name 
will  be  !  Oh  !  wont  I  lead  him  a  life — wotCt  I  make  hin^ 
wish  he  had  never  been  born — won*t  I  teach  him  what  i; 
is  to  drive  a  girl  to  desperation  ?  He  thinks  because  I 
am  a  little  thing  he  can  hold  me  up  with  one  hand — and, 
by  the  way.  Celeste,  his  hands  always  remind  me  of  a 
lobster's  claw  stuck  into  a  pump-handle — that  he  can  do 
what  he  pleases  with  me.  We'll  see  I  Hook  my  dress, 
Celeste.     It's  a  ottv  to  keep  my  AdonU  waiting,  and  d'» 


\ 


MAY    AND    DRCEMBHM, 


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hite  vail, 
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appoint  all  these  good  people  who  have  come  to  se^  the 

fun." 

"  Dear  Gipsy,  do  not  look  and  talk  so  wi-dly.  And 
p:ay,  take  off  that  black  dress,  and  wear  any  other  color 
c'ou  wish.     People  will  talk  so,  you  know." 

"  Let  *em  tf  ik  then,  my  dear.  They'll  only  say  it's  one 
of  Gipsy's  vvhims.  Besides,  it  will  shock  Spider,  which  is 
jnst  whcU  I  want.  He'll  get  a  few  more  shocks  before  ' 
havj  done  with  him,  I  rather  think.  Hook  my  dres£}, 
Celeste." 

With  a  sigh  at  the  elf's  perversity,  Celeste  obeyed  ; 
and  with  a  sad  face,  watched  the  eccentric  little  bride 
shake  out  the  folds  of  her  black  robe,  and  fasten  a  dark 
crimson  belt  around  her  waist. 

*'  Now,  if  I  had  a  few  poppies  or  marigolds  to  fasten 
in  my  hair,  I'd  look  bewitching  ;  as  I  haven't,  these  must 
do."  And  with  a  high,  ringing  laugh,  she  twined  a  dark, 
purplish  passion-flower  amid  her  shining  curls.  "  Now 
for  my  rouge.  I  must  look  blooming,  you  know — happy 
brides  always  should.  Then  it  will  save  me  the  trouble 
of  blushing,  which  is  something  I  never  was  guilty  of  in 
my  life.  No,  never  mind  those  pearls*  Celeste ;  I  fear 
Dr.  Wiseman  might  find  them  brighter  than  my  eye, 
which  would  not  do  by  *  no  manner  of  meins.'  There  ! 
I'm  ready.     Who  ever  saw  so  bewildering  a  bride  ?" 

She  turned  from  the  mirror,  and  stood  before  Celeste, 
ber  eyes  shining  like  stars,  streaming  with  an  unnatur- 
illy  blazing  light,  the  pallor  of  her  face  hidden  by  the 
rouge,  the  dark  passion-flower  drooping  amid  her  curls, 
fit  emblem  of  herself.  There  was  an  airy,  floating  light- 
ness about  her,  as  if  she  scarcely  felt  the  ground  she 
walked  on — a  fire  and  wildness  in  her  large,  dark  eyes 
that  made  Celeste's  heart  ache  for  her.  Very  beautiful 
she  looked,  with  her  dark,  oriental  face,  shaded  by  its 
sable  locks,  the  rich,  dark  dress  falling  with  classic  ele- 


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ganct  from  her  round,  little  w.aist.  She  looked  rs  ^\\t 
stood,  bright,  tnockin;;,  dcfirint,  sconiliil — more  like  some 
fairy  chaui^oliug— some  fay  of  tlie  moonlight— tlian  a 
living  crciuuio,  vvicli  a  woman's  heart.  And  yet,  under 
that  daring,  bright  cxlerior,  a  wild,  anguished  heart  lay 
crushed  and  qiuvoring,  shedding  tears  of  blood,  that 
leaped  to  the  eyt-s  to  be  changed  to  sparks  of  fire. 

"  Let  us  go  down,"  said  Celeste,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yes,  let  us  go.  Do  you  know,  Celeste,  I  read  once 
of  a  man  whom  the  Indians  were  going  to  burn  to  death 
at  ♦^he  stake,  and  who  began  cursing  them  when  they  led 
him  there  for  making  him  wait  so  long.  Now  I  teel  just 
like  that  man;  since  I  am  to  be  doomed  to  the  stake — why, 
the  sooner  the  torture  is  ovor  thf  ijciier.* 

She  looked  so  beautiful,  so  kowilching,  yei  su  mock- 
ing and  unreal,  so  like  a  spirit  of  air,  as  she  spoke,  that, 
almost  expecting  to  see  her  vanish  from  her  sight,  Celeste 
caught  her  in  her  arms,  and  gazed  upon  her  with  pity- 
ing, yearning,  love-lit  eyes,  from  which  the  tears  were 
fast  falling. 

'*  Don't  cry  for  me,  Celeste  ;  you  make  me  feci  mor« 
like  an  imp  than  ever.  I  really  think  I  must  be  a  family 
relation  of  the  goblin  page  we  read  about  in  the  *  Lay  ol 
the  Last  Minstrel,'  for  1  feel  like  doing  as  he  did,  throw- 
ing up  my  arras,  and  crying,  *  Lost  !'  I'm  sure  that  gob- 
lin page  would  have  made  his  fortune  in  a  circus,  since 
his  ordinary  mode  of  walking  consisted  of  leaps  of  fifty 
feet  high  or  so.  Crying  still.  Celeste  '  Why,  I  thought 
I'd  make  you  laugh.  Now,  Celeste,  if  you  don't  dry  your 
eyes,  I'll  go  right  up  to  where  Aunty  Gower  keeps 
prussic  acid  for  the  rats,  and  commit  suicide  right  off  the 
reel.  I've  felt  I'.ke  doing  it  all  the  time  lately,  but  never 
■o  much  so  as  when  I  see  you  crying  for  me.  Why, 
Celeste,  I  never  was  worth  one  tear  from  those  blue  eyes, 
body  and  bones.     What's  the  use  of  anybody's  grieving 


Af/I  V      LVD     DFCRMBER. 


•41 


for  a  iittlc.  iiind,  liate-hrjiined  thing  like  mc  ?  J'JJ  do 
rrcll  enough  ;  I'll  be  pertecily  hiippy — see  if  I  don't !  It 
will  be  sucii  glorious  fun,  you  know,  driving  Spider 
mad  !  And,  oh,  7W//7  1  close  him  !  Tra  !  la,  la,  la,  la, 
la!"  and  Gipsy  vvakzed airily  around  the  room. 

At  this  moincni  ihere  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Celeste  opened  it,  and  Mrs.  Gower,  in  the  well-preserved 
silk  and  lace  cap  she  had  worn  years  before  to  Lizzie 
Oraiunore's  wedding,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  Celeste!  why  don't  you  hurry?  Where  is 
Gipsy?  Oh,  good  gracious,  chili!  not  dressed  yet? 
Wbrtt  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  ?  The  people  have 
been  waiting  these  two  hours,  almost,  in  the  parlors! 
Do  hurry,  for  mercy  sake,  and  dress  !" 

"Why,  aunty,  i  am  dressed.  Don't  you  sec  I  am  all 
ready  to  become  Mrs.  Wiseman  ?" 

"  But  my  {/far  child,  that  black  dress " 

•'  This  black  dress  will  do  very  well — suits  my  com- 
plexion best,  which  is  rather  of  the  mulatto  order  than 
otherwise  ;  and  it's  a  pity  if  a  blessed  bride  can't  wear 
what  she  likr-b  without  such  a  fuss  being  made  about  it. 
Now,  aunty,  don't  begin  to  lecture — it'll  only  be  a  waste 
of  powder  and  a  loss  of  time  ;  and  I'm  impatient  to  ar- 
rive at  the  place  of  execution." 

Mrs.  Gower  sank  horrified  into  a  chair,  and  gazed 
with  a  look  of  despair  into  the  mocking,  defiant  eyes  of 
the  elfm  bride. 

'*  Oh,  Gipsy  !  what  ever  will  the  people  say  ?  In  a 
L^ack  dress  /  Good  lieavens  !  Why,  you'll  look  more  like 
the  chief  mourner  at  a  funeral  than  a  bride  I  And  what 
will  Dr.  Wiseman  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't,  aunty  !  I  hope  he'll  get  into  a  passion, 
and  blow  me  and  everybody  else  up  when  he  sees  it !" 
cjicd  Gipsy,  clapping  her  hands  with  delight  at  the  idea. 

*'  Oh,  dear  I  oh,  dear  !  did  any  one  ever  know  such  • 
II 


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M^y    AND    DECEMBER, 


strange  girl  ?  Just  to  think  of  throwing^  aside  that 
beautiful  dress  that  your  guardian  paid  a  small  fortune 
for,  for  that  common  black  lace  thing,  the  worst  dress 
you  have !" 

"Aunty — see  here! — you  may  have  this  'beautiful 
dress  *  when  you  get  married.  You're  young,  and  goo»l 
looking,  and  substantial,  too,  and  1  shouldn't  wonder  if 
you  had  a  proposal  one  of  these  days.  With  a  little 
letting  down  in  the  skirt,  acd  a  little  letting  out  in  the 
waist " 

"  Gipsy,  hush  \  How  can  you  go  oii  with  such  non- 
sense at  such  a  time  ?  Miss  Pearl,  can  you  not  induce 
her  to  take  olT  that  horrid  black  dress?" 

"  I  think  you  had  better  let  her  wear  it,  madam.  Miss 
Gower  will  not  be  persuaded." 

"Well,  since  it  must  be  so,  then  come.  Luckily, 
everybody  knows  vvhat  an  odd,  flighty  thing  Gipsy  is, 
and  therefore  will  not  be  so  much  surprised." 

**  1  shoui'l  think  the  world  would  not  be  surprised  at 
anytning  1  would  do  since  I  have  consented  to  marry 
that  hideous  orang-outang,  that  mockery  of  man,  that 
death's-head,  that  'thing  of  legs  and  arms,*  that " 

"  Hush  !  hush  I  you  little  termagant !  What  a  way 
to  speak  .A  the  man  you  are  going  to  promise  to  *  love, 
huno?\  fvud  obey,'  '  said  the  profoundly  shocked  Mrs 
Gower. 

*^  LovCf  hofwr,  and  obey!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Oh,  won't  1 
though,  with  a  vengeance  !  Won't  I  be  a  pattern  wife  1 
You'Ti  see  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  child  ?" 

"  Nothing,  aunty,"  said  Gipsy,  with  a  strange  smile, 
*"  merely  making  a  meditation.  Here  we  are  at  the  stake 
at  last,  and  there  I  peT-jcive  Reverend  Mr,  Goodenough 
ready  to  act  the  part  of  executioner ;  and  there,  too,  is 
Dr.  Wiseman,  the  victim— who,  as  he  wlU  by  and  by  find 


.-Pt     !ffi| 


MAY    AND    DECEMBER. 


«4J 


rorst  dress 


dam.   Miss 


out,  is  going  to  prove  himself  most  decidedly  a  sillf  man 
to-day.  Now,  Gipsy  Gower,  you  are  going  to  create  a 
sensation,  my  dear,  though  yc  u  are  pretty  well  accus- 
tomed to  that  sort  of  thing." 

They  had  reached  the  hall  by  this  time,  where  Dr. 
Wiseman,  Squire  Erliston,  and  a  number  of  others  stood. 
All  stared  aghast  at  the  sable  robes  of  Gipsy. 

"  Oh  ?  how  is  it  ?  Why,  what  is  the  meaniii£r  cf 
this?"  demanded  the  squire,  in  a  rage. 

"  Meaning  of  what,  Guardy  ?" 

''  What  do  you  mean,  miss,  by  wearing  that  black 
frock  ?" 

"  And  what  business  is  it  of  yourc,  sir  ?" 

"  You  impudent  miny  !  Go  right  up  stairs  and  take 
it  off." 

"  I  won't  do  anything  of  the  kind  !  There  now ! 
Anybody  that  doesn't  like  me  in  this  can  let  me  alone," 
retorted  Gipsy. 

A  fierce  imprecation  was  on  the  lips  of  the  squire 
but  Dr.  Wiseman  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm,  and  s^d,  in 
bis  oiliest  tones  : 

**  Never  mind  her,  my  dear  sir ;  let  her  consult  her 
own  taste.  I  am  as  willing  my  bride  should  wear  black 
as  anything  else ;  she  looks  bewitching  in  anything. 
Come,  fairest  lady." 

He  attempted  to  draw  her  arm  within  his,  but  she 
sprang  back,  and  transfixing  him  w^*ii  a  flashing  glance 
she  hissed 

"  No  ;  withered  be  my  arm  if  it  ever  rests  in  yours  i 
Stand  aside.  Dr.  Wiseman  ;  there  is  pollution  in  the  very 
touch  of  your  hand." 

*'  You  capricious  little  fairy,  why  do  yon  hate  me 
10  r 

"Hate  .  Don  t  flatter  yourself  I  hate  jon,  Dr.  Wiw- 


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«44 


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i  ^! 


»,  ,t 


(■  I  i' 


.'■■I:,  ''■ 


^1  ,,■■  i...i 


man  --!  despise  you  too  much  for  that,"  she  replied,  her 
bcautifui  lip  curliiif^  scornfully. 

"E-Tcsperatiug  little  dare-devil  that  you  are  !"  he  ex* 
claimed,  growing  white  with  impotent  rage,  "take  caro 
that  I  do  not  make  you  repcLt  this." 

"  You  hideous  old  fright !  do  you  dare  to  threaten 
now  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  dare  to  perform,  too,  if  you  do  liot  beware. 
Keep  a  guard  on  your  tongue,  my  lady,  or  you  know  who 
will  suffer  for  it." 

The  fierce  retort  that  hovered  on  the  lip  of  Gipsy  waa 
checked  by  their  entrance  into  the  drawing-room.  Such 
a  crowd  as  was  there,  dra-wn  together  for  miles  around 
by  the  news  of  this  singular  marriage.  All  shrank  back 
and  looked  at  one  another,  as  their  eyes  fell  on  the  omi- 
nous garments  of  the  bride,  as  she  walked  in,  proudly 
erect,  beside  her  grinrt  bridegroom. 

"Beauty  and  the  Beast!"  "Vulcan  and  Venus!'' 
"May  and  December!"  were  the  whispers  that  went 
round  the  room  as  they  appeared. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Goodenough  approached,  and  the  bridal 
party  stood  before  him — the  doctor  glancing  uneasily  at 
his  little  bride,  who  stood  with  her  flashing  eyes  riveted 
to  the  floor,  her  lips  firmly  compressed,  proud,  erect  and 
haughty. 

The  marriage  ceremony  commenced,  and  Mr.  Good* 
flmough,  turning  to  the  doctor,  put  the  usual  question  : 

"  Nicholas  Wiseman,  wilt  thou  have  Aurora  Gower, 
here  present,  to  be  thy  wedded  wife,  to  have  and  to  hold, 
for  better  for  worse,  lor  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sickness 
and  healtli,  until  death  doth  you  part  l  * 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  loud,  clear,  and  QiJ'ttnct 

Turning  to  the  bride  the  c  ^rgyman  demanded ; 

**  Aurora  Gower,  wilt  thou  have  Nicholan  Wiseman 


MAy    AND    DECEMBSR, 


MS 


here  present,  to  be  thy  lawful  husband,  to  have,  and  to 
hold  ?"  etc. 

A  loud,  fierce,  passionate  "  No  /"  b  irst  from  the  lips 
of  the  hi  Me.  Dr.  Wiseman  saw  her  intention,  and  was 
immediately  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing,  in 
which  her  reply  was  drowned. 

Tlie  mockery  ol  a  marriage  was  over,  and  Nicholas 
Wiseman  and  Aurora  Gower  were  solemnly  pro- 
nounced '•  man  aiul   wife/' 

A  mocking  smile  curled  the  lips  of  the  bride  at  the 
words,  and  she  turned  to  receive  the  congratulations 
of  her  many  friends,  to  bear  all  the  hand-shaking,  and 
hear  herself  addressed  as  "  Mrs.  Wiseman." 

"Now,  beautiful  fairy,  you  are  my  own  at  last. 
You  see  fate  had  decreed  it,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a 
grim  smile. 

"  And  bitterly  sliall  you  repent  that  decree.  Do  you 
know  what  I  was  doing  when  I  stood  up  before  the 
clergyman  with  you  ?" 

"  No,  sweet  wife." 

"  Weil,  then,  listen.  I  was  vowing  and  consecrating 
my  whole  life  to  one  purpose — one  aim  ;  and  that  is 
deadly  vengeance  against  you  for  what  you  have  done. 
Night  and  day,  sleeping  or  waking,  it  shall  always  oc- 
cupy my  thoughts,  and  1  will  live  now  only  for  re- 
venge. Ha  I  I  see  I  can  make  your  saffron  visage 
blanch  already,  Dr.  Wiseman.  Oh  i  you'll  find  what  a 
happy  thing  it  is  to  be  married.  Since  I  must  go  down, 
I  shall  drag  down  with  me  all  who  have  had  part  or 
share  in  this,  my  misery.  You^  viper,  ghoul  that  you 
are,  have  turned  my  very  nature  into  that  of  a  fiend. 
Dr.  Wiseman,  if  I  thought,  by  any  monstrous  possibil- 
ity, you  could  ever  go  to  heaven,  I  would  take  a  dagger 
and  send  my  o  vn  soul  to  perditi'in,  sooner  than  fo  thers 
with  you." 


■  r 


i.-*-:  .,  V 


<* 


*       I  * 


i 


f^   r 


''I 

!  h 


I     I    Jfl  ! 

1    :  i 

\  ii  hi 


III. 


':i|! 


Ml    J 


1  '' 
I'  1 


!.i  »■  > 


A4« 


ARCHIE'S    LOST    LOVE. 


There  was  something  in  her  words,  her  tone,  her  face^ 
perfectly  appalling.  Her  countenance  was  deadly  white, 
save  where  the  rouge  colored  it,  and  her  eyes.  Oh! 
never  were  such  wild,  burning,  gleaming  eyes  seen  b, 
any  face  before.  He  cowered  from  her  like  the  soul- 
struck  coward  that  he  was  ;  and,  as  with  one  glance  of 
deadly  concentrated  hate  she  glided  from  his  side  and 
mingled  with  the  crowd,  he  wiped  the  cold  perspiratioo 
off  his  brow,  and  realized  how  true  were  the  words  oft 
quoted  : 

"  Hell  has  no  fuiy  like  at  woman  ■corned.'* 

and  began   to   fear   that,  after   all,  Mount  Sunset  mct 
purchased  at  a  dear  price. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


Archie's  lost  lots. 


•*  Be  it  so  !  we  part  forever — 
Let  the  past  as  nothing  be  ; 
Had  I  only  loved  thee,  never 
Hadst  thou  been  thus  dear  to 


"  More  than  woman  thou  wast  to  1B»— 

Not  as  man  I  looked  on  thee  ; 

Why,  like  woman,  then,  u^do  me? 

VVhy  heap  man's  worst  curse  on  me  ?"— BiaflH. 


I 


I      I 


|T  was  the  evening  of  Gipsy's  wedding-day— 
a  wet,  chilly,  disagreeable  evening,  giving 
liroaiisc  ol  a  stormy,  tempestuous  night — fit 
u'caJicr  K.f  sucli  a  bridal  ! 

Lightb  wore  already  gleaming  in  the  cot- 
U£e&  of  the  villageiv  and  tiie  large  parlor  of  the  **Iai 


■  ■    -v     I 


ARCHIE'S    LOST    LOVE, 


>47 


of  St.  Mark's"  was  crowded—  every  one  discusiicg  the 

surprising  wedding  up  at  the  Hall,  and  wondering  what 
Miss  Gipsy  would  do  next — when,  as  James  says,  "  a 
solitary  horseman  might  have  been  seen,"  riding  at  a 
break-neck  pace  toward  Deep  Dale.  The  house  looked 
dreary,  dark,  and  dismal — unlig..ted  save  by  the  glare 
iVom  one  window.  Unheeding  this,  the  "  solitary  horse- 
man "  alighted,  and  giving  his  horse  to  the  care  of  the 
servant,  ran  up  the  stairs  and  unceremoniously  burst 
into  the  parlor,  where  Minnette  Wiseman  sat  reading 
alone.  All  her  father's  entreaties  and  commands  to  be 
present  at  his  wedding  were  unheeded.  She  had  heard 
the  news  of  his  approaching  marriage  with  the  utmost 
coolness — a  stare  of  surprise  from  her  bright  black  eyes 
being  the  only  outward  emotion  it  caused. 

"  Why  should  I  go  to  see  you  married  ?"  was  her  im- 
patient reply  to  his  stern  commands.  *'  I  care  nothing 
for  Gipsy  Gower,  nor  she  for  me.  You  can  be  married 
just  as  well  without  me.     I  won't  go  !  " 

Therefore  she  sat  quietly  reading  at  home  while  the 
nuptial  revelry  was  at  its  height  in  Sunset  Hall,  and 
looked  up,  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  to  see  our 
traveler  standing  before  her. 

"  Archie  !  what  in  the  world  brought  you  here  V^  ohc 
exclaimed,  rising,  and  placing  a  chair  for  him  before  the 
Ire. 

'  Rail -cars  part  of  the  way,  steamer  next,  and,  finally, 
aiy  horse." 

"  Don't  be  absurd.  Why  have  you  come  to  Saint 
Mark's?  No  one  expected  you  here  these  three 
months." 

'*  Know  it,  coz.  Bu:  I've  found  out  I  am  the  luckiesi 
dog  in  creation,  and  ran  dowr  here  to  tell  you  and  an- 
other particular  friend  I  have.  I  suppose  you  have  heard 
of  Uncle  John  Rivers,  my  father's  brother.     Yes !    Well 


» 


!•' 


% 


«4« 


ARCHIE'S    LOST    LOVE, 


^"^ 


'A  ^\  I 


i1  ^' 


1 


I-      li  : 

i  ! 


about  four  monilis  ago  he  returned  from  Europe,  wiU 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  and  the  con- 
sumption. Though  he  never  had  the  honor  of  my  ac 
quaintancc,  he  knew  there  existed  so  distinguished  an 
individual,  and  accordingly  left  the  whole  of  his  prop- 
erty to  me  ;  and  a  lew  weeks  after,  gave  up  the  gho^t 
You  see,  therefore,  Minnette,  I'm  a  rich  man.  .'v€ 
pitched  law  to  its  patron  saint,  the — hem  ! — and  started 
off  down  liere  post-haste  to  marry  a  certain  little  girl  in 
these  dipfgin's,  and  take  her  with  me  to  see  the  sights  in 
tCurope." 

'•  My  dear  cousin,  I  congratulate  you.  I  presume 
Miss  Peari  is  to  be  the  young  lady  of  your  choice." 

'*  No  ;  Celeste  is  too  much  of  an  angel  for  such  a  hot- 
headed scamp  as  I  am.  I  mean  another  little  girl,  whom 
I've  long  had  a  penchant  for.     But  where's  your  father  ?" 

Minnette  laughed  sarcastically. 

"  Getting  married,  I  presume.  This  night  my  worthy 
parent  follows  tlie  Scriptural  injunction,  and  takes  unto 
himself  a  wife." 

"Nonsense,  Minnette  ! — you  jest." 

"Do  I?"  said  Minnette,  quietly.  "I  thought  yoa 
knew  me  well  enough  now,  Archie,  to  know  I  never 
jest." 

"But,  Minnette,  it  is  absurd.     Dr.  Wiseman  married 
in  his  old  age.     Why,  it's  a  capital  joke."     And  Archie 
laughed  uproariously.     "Who  is  the  fortunate  lady  that 
s  to  be  3our  mamma  and  my  respected  aunt?" 

"  Wliy,  no  other  than  that  little  savage,  Gipij 
Gower." 

Had  a  spasm  been  s  iddenly  thrust  into  Archie's  heart, 
he  could  not  have  leaped  mc-e  convulsively  from  his 
scat.  Even  the  undaunted  Minnette  drew  back  in 
alarm. 

*^  What  did  you   say '"  he  ezclaiii»«d,  f^mipinc  hef 


ARCHIE'S    LOST    LOVE. 


•4f 


irm,  unconsciously,  with  a  grip  of  Iron.     "To  whom  it 
he  to  be  married  ?" 

"  To  Aurora  Gower.  What  do  you  mean,  tir  ?  Let 
go  my  arm." 

He  dropped  it,  staggered  to  a  cair,  dropped  his 
head  in  his  hands,  and  sat  like  one  suddenly  struck  by 
death. 

"Archie,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Minnette,  looking 
at  him  in  wonder.  "  Was  Gipsy  the  one  you  came  here 
to  marry  ?" 

"Minnette!  Minnette!  it  cannot  be  true!"  he  ex- 
claimed, springing  to  his  feet,  without  heeding  her  ques- 
tion.  *' It  is  absurd — monstrous — impossible  J  My  wild, 
free,  daring  Gipsy  would  never  consent  to  marry  a  man 
she  abhorred.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Minnette,  only  say 
you  have  been  jesting  !" 

"I  have  spoken  the  truth,"  she  answered,  coldly. 
"My  father  this  morning  married  Aurora  Gower  !" 

•*  Great  heavens  !  I  shall  go  mad  I  What  in  the 
name  of  all  the  saints  tempted  her  to  commit  such  an 
act  ?" 

"  I  know  noc.  Most  probabky  it  is  one  of  her  strange 
freaks — or,  perhaps,  she  thinks  papa  rich,  and  married 
him  for  his  money.  At  all  events,  married  him  she 
tias ;  hei  reasons  for  doing  so  I  neither  know  nor  care 
for." 

"  Heaven  of  heavens  !  Could  Gipsy — she  whom  I  al- 
ways thought  the  pure,  warm-hearted  child  of  nature — 
commit  so  base  an  act  ?  It  cannot  be  !  I  will  never  be- 
lieve it !  By  some  infernal  plot  she  has  been  entrapped 
into  this  unnatural  marriage,  and  dearly  shall  those  who 
have  forced  her  rue  it !"  exclaimed  Archie,  treading  up 
and  down  the  room  like  one  distracted, 

"  You  always  thought  her  simple  and  gutlelesi ;  I  al- 
ways kmw  her  to  be  artful  and  ambitious.    She  hu  not 
II* 


♦ 


•so 


ARCHIE'S    LOST    LOVE, 


■iW 


I  f.. 


'  1 


!'  !'    Id 


*i  !i 


^it:. 


. 


1    1  1  n 

J      ■  1    ! 


ill 


been  entrapped.  1  have  heard  that  she  laughs  as  mer.ily 
as  ever,  and  talks  more  n  jnsense  than  she  ever  did  befo'! 
ill  her  life — i.i  bhort,  appears  perfectly  happv.  She  is  too 
bold  and  dariui;  n)  b.-  entry ,>pcd.  Besides,  what  means 
could  ihey  use  to  compel  her?  If  she  found  their,  wiying 
to  tyrannize  «» . cr  he: .  >.he  would  run  oflE  as  she  did  be- 
fore. Nume-.v.e,  Arc/lie!  Vour  own  sense  must  tel! 
you  she  has  married  him  willingly." 

Every  wt>»rd  was  like  a  dagger  to  his  heart.  He 
dropped  into  a  ciiair,  bu;ied  his  face  m  his  hands,  aud 
groaned. 

"  Oh,  Gipsy  I  Gipsy  ! — lost  to  me  forever.  What  are 
we.'.Ith  and  honor  to  ine  now  !  For  you  I  toiled  to  win 
a  hoi:.e  and  name,  believing  \ou  true.  And  thus  I  am 
repaid  for  all.  Oh,  is  there  nothing  but  treachery  and 
deceit  in  this;  world?  Would  to  hcii;en,"  he  added, 
springing  fiercely  up,  and  shaking  back  his  fair,  brown 
hair,  "  that  the  man  she  has  wedded  were  not  an  old  do- 
tard like  that.  I  would  blow  his  brains  out  ere  another 
hour." 

"  My  father  will,  no  doubt,  rejoice  to  find  his  years 
have  saved  his  life,"  said  Minnette,  in  her  customary  cold 
tone.  **  Pray,  Mr.  Rivers,  be  more  calm  ;  there  is  nc 
necessity  for  ail  this  excitement.  If  Aurora  Gower  has 
deserted  you  for  one  whom  she  supposed  wealthier,  it  \t 
only  the  old  story  over  again/*  ' 

"The  old  stoiy  !"  exclaimed  Archie,  bitterly.  "  Yer 
il;e  old  story  of  woman's  heartlessness  aad  treachery 
.iud  man's  blind  self-deception.  Be  calm  !  Yes  ;  if  you 
had  toid  me  she  whom  I  love  above  ail  on  earth  was 
dead,  and  in  her  grave,  I  might  be  calm  ;  but  the  Kxit  of 
another,  and  that  other" — he  paused,  lad  ground  his  teetb 
>vith  impotent  rage. 

"  Well,  since  it  's  so,  and  cannot  be  helped,  what's  tha 


ARCHIE'S    LOST    LOVE. 


•J» 


use  of  making  such  a  time  about  it?"  said  Minnctte,  im* 
patiently,  taking  up  her  book  and  beginning  to  read. 

Archie  glanced  at  the  cold,  stone-like  girl  before  him 
whose  very  calmness  seemed  to  madden  him  ;  then,  seiz- 
ing his  hat,  he  rushed  from  the  room,  exclaiming : 

"Yes,  I  will  see  hei  -!  will  confront  her  once  mcBC 
tccuse  her  of  her  deceit  and  selfishness,  and  then  leave 
\vt  country  forever." 

He  was  out  of  the  house  in  an  instant ;  and  in  five 
minutes  was  galloping  madly  through  the  driving  wind 
and  rain,  unheeded  and  unfelt,  now  toward  Mount  Sun- 
set Hall. 

The  numberless  blazing  lights  from  the  many  win- 
dows illumined  his  path  before  it  ;  the  sound  of  revelry 
was  wafted  to  his  ears  by  the  wind,  making  him  gnash 
his  teeth  in  very  rage. 

He  reached  the  mansion,  threw  the  reins  to  one  of 
the  many  servants  standing  in  the  court-yard  ;  and  all  wet 
and  travei-staiiied,  pale,  wild,  and  excited  as  he  was,  he 
madehis  way  through  the  wondering  crowd,  that  involun- 
tarily made  way  for  him  to  pass  ;  and 

**  So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers  and  all. 
But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 
The  bride  had  consented — the  gallant  came  late." 

Heeding  not  the  many  curious  eyes  bent  upon  him,  still 
he  strode  on,  until  he  stood  within  the  crowded  drawing- 
room. 

Amid  ail  that  throng  his  eye  saw  but  one  face, beheld 
but  one  form.  Standing  near  the  upper  tnA  of  the  room 
was  Gipsy — his  Gipsy  once — looking  far  more  beautiful 
than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before,  and  flirting  with  all  hei 
ciight  with  a  dashing  lieutenant. 

Having  gained  her  point,  to  be  married  in  black,  she 


^■^ 


. 


m 


■s* 


ARCHIE'S    1.0 ST    IaIVE 


»'  i 


!■  ., 


had  exchanged  her  distnal  robes  for  the  gornfeoui 
wedding-dress  that  fell  around  her  in  foMs  of  light 
Pearls  flashed  amid  her  raven  curls,  gleamed  in  her  ears, 
shone  on  her  white  arms,  and  rose  and  fell  on  her  rest- 
less bosom.  She  needed  no  rouge,  for  her  cheeks  were 
vivid  crimson,  her  lips  red  and  glowing,  her  cyc»  out- 
shining the  jewels  she  wore.  Never  had  Gipsy  been  so 
lovely,  so  bewildering,  so  intoxicating  before. 

The  very  siji^lit  seemed  to  madden  Archie.  To  see  her 
there  in  all  her  dazzling  beauty,  the  wife  of  another, 
laughing  and  talking  as  gayly  as  though  he  had  nevei 
existed,  nearly  drove  him  to  desperation.  Striding 
through  the  crowd  of  gay  revelers,  who  drew  back  in 
alarm  from  his  wild,  pale  face  and  fierce  eyes,  he  ad 
vanced  throuj^h  the  room,  and  stood  before  the  bride. 

There  was  an  instantaneous  hush  through  the  room. 
Dr.  Wiseman,  already  sullen  and  jealous,  sprang  up 
from  the  distant  corner  to  which  he  had  retreated,  but 
did  not  venture  to  approach. 

Gipsy's  graceful  head  was  bent  in  well-affected  timid- 
ity as  she  listened  to  the  gallant  words  and  whispered 
compliments  of  the  gay  young  officer,  when,  suddenly 
looking  up,  she  beheld  a  sight  that  froze  the  smile  on 
her  lip,  the  light  in  her  eye,  the  blood  in  her  veins,  the 
very  life  in  her  heart.  Every  trace  of  color  faded  from 
her  face,  leaving  her  white  as  the  dead  ;  her  lips  p&rted, 
but  no  sound  came  forth. 

"  So,  Mrs.  Wiseman,  I  see  you  recognize  me  !"  he 
said,  with  bitter  sarcasm.  "Allow  me  to  congratulate 
you  upon  this  joy  ful  occasion.  Do  not  let  the  recollection 
that  you  have  perjured  yourself  to-day  before  God's  min- 
ister, mar  your  festivity  to-night.  No  doubt  the  wealth 
for  which  you  have  cast  a  true  heart  aside,  and  wedded 
a  man  you  loathe,  will  make  you  completely  happy.  As 
I  leave  America  forever  to-morr  ow,  I  wished  to  offer  my 


ARCHIE* S    LOST    LOVE. 


m 


congratulations  to  the  *  happy  pair  '  before  I  went.  I  wat 
fool  enough,  at  one  lime,  to  believe  the  promises  you 
made  me  ;  but  I  ditl  not  then  know  *  how  fair  an  outside 
falsehood  hatli.'  Farewell,  Mrs.  Wiseman  !  you  and  I 
will  never  meet  again.  All  your  treachery,  all  your  de- 
ceit, your  heartlcbsness,  is  known  to  me,  and  I  will  never 
trouble  you  more  !" 

He  turned,  left  the  house,  sprang  on  his  horse,  and 
was  out  of  St.  Mark's  ere  any  one  had  recovered  from 
their  astonishment  and  stupefaction  sufficiently  to  speak. 

He  heard  not,  as  he  rode  along,  the  wild,  piercing 
cry  of  anguish  tliat  broke  from  the  lips  of  the  bride,  as 
she  fell  senseless  to  the  ground.  He  knew  not,  as  he 
stood  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  next  morning,  bound 
for  **  merrie  England,"  that  the  once  free,  wild,  mountain 
huntress,  the  once  daring,  defying  Gipsy,  lay  raving  and 
shrieking  in  the  wild  delirijim  of  brain  fever,  calling  al- 
ways in  vain  for  him  she  had  lost.  They  had  caught  the 
young  eaglet,  and  caged  it  at  last ;  but  the  free  bird  of 
the  mountains  lay  woundsd  and  dyinj;  io  their  graip. 


nff 

«i 

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« i' 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


LOUIS. 


A  look  of  pride,  an  ey«  of  flam*  ; 

A  full-drawn  lip  that  upward  cuneJ  ; 

An  eye  that  seemed  to  scorn  the  world."— Scort. 

was  a  merry  morn  in  Juno,  many  monthi 
iiftcr  the  events  related  in  the  last  chapter. 
A  brici  retrospective  glance  it  is  necessary  to 
take  ere  we  proceed. 

For  many  long  weeks  after  the  fatal  night 
of  her  marriage,  Gipsy  lay  iiovering  between  life  and 
death;  and  Celeste  came,  with  her  loving  heart,  and 
gentle  voice,  and  noiseless  footstep,  and,  unheeding  rest 
or  sleep,  nursed  the  po(jr,  pale,  crazed  little  bride  back 
to  life.  No  one  else  would  Gipsy  have  near  her — not 
even  Aunty  Gowe»  :  and  a  physician  from  the  city  at- 
tended her — for  the  very  mention  of  her  detested  bride- 
groom threw  her  into  hysterics.  But,  notvrithstanding 
all  their  care,  long  mcmtiis  passed  away  ere  Gipsy  was 
well  again,  and  Celeste,  worn  and  wearied,  but  uncom- 
plaining, permitted  to  return  to  the  peaceful  solitude  of 
Valley  Cottage. 

Dr.  Wiseman  had  not  yet  breathed  a  syllable  of 
Gipsy's  parentage.  He  could  not  do  so  during  her  ill- 
Qess  ;  and  -vlien  she  recovered,  he  wished  a  decent  intcr- 
ral  of  time  to  elapse  ere  he  made  it  known,  lest  the 
world  should  suspect  his  previous  knowledge  of  it  had 
caused  him  to  marry  her.  Besides,  he  found  there  was 
no  cause  to  hurry  ;  for,  during  Gipsy's  illness,  the  squire 
had  invited  him  to  shut  up  his  house  at  Deep  Dale  and 


tours. 


<S5 


■  >\ 


bring  Minnettc  with  him,  to  reside  at  Sunset  Hall.     To 

this  the  doctor  eagerly  assented  ;  and  havinij,  with  some 
trouble,  prevailed  upon  Minnettc  to  accompany  him, 
Deep  Dale  was  rentec,  and  the  doctor  and  his  daughter 
became  domesticated  at  Mount  Sunset  Hall. 

Nearly  nine  months  had  elapsed.  Gipsy — now  h^ 
well  as  ever,  and  more  daring  and  mischievous  eve? 
than  before — had  just  set  herself  to  work  to  begin  lul 
filling  the  vow  she  had  made,  and  soon  succeeded  in 
driving  the  doctor  nearly  wild.  Though  he  had  merely 
married  her  for  her  money,  he  had,  as  time  passed  on, 
learned  to  love  her  with  a  strange,  selfish,  absorbing 
passion  ;  and  the  more  she  mocked,  and  scorned,  and 
laughed  at  him,  the  more  infatuated  he  grew.  The  wil- 
ful elf  kept  her  husband  in  a  constant  state  of  panic  and 
terror,  running  into  the  greatest  dangers  with  the  ut- 
most recklessness,  and  often  barely  esc?.ping  with  her 
life.  Out  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night,  sometimes  not 
coming  home  until  morning,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  she  kept  the  whole  household  in  alarm.  Often  after 
midnight,  going  out  to  search  for  her,  they  would  find 
her  riding  among  the  rocks,  or,  having  tied  up  Mig- 
nonne,  she  would  be  discovered  asleep  in  some  grotto  or 
cavern.  Then  her  flirting !  The  doctor  was  madly 
jealous,  and  not  without  reason.  There  was  not  a  man 
under  thirty,  if  at  all  presentable,  but  the  reckless  girl 
had  flirted  unmercifully  with,  in  a  way  that  would  havr 
completely  destroyed  the  reputation  of  any  other  woma:-. 
buL  which  was  men^ly  noticed  by  the  remark  that  it  \va: 
"just  like  Gipsy ;"  and  her  maddest  actions  were  iiit- 
cned  to  with  a  smile  and  a  stare  of  astonishment,  and  a 
wonder  what  she'll  do  next  ?"  Poor,  half-crazed  little 
Gipsy !  The  real  goodness  of  her  nature  was  too  ap- 
parent to  all  through  her  outward  recklessness  to  make 
them  suspect  her  of  evil. 


» 


it*. 


1 1! 


H 


'    !  1  ll 


•s« 


LOUIS. 


\ 


St.  Mark's  had  become  a  much  gayer  p.&ce  tbti 
when  we  first  knew  it.  Many  new  lamilies  had  moved 
hither  from  the  city;  and  balls,  and  parties,  and  sleigh, 
rides  in  wirter,  and  picnics,  and  excursions,  and  soircca, 
\n  summer,  became  all  the  rage  ;  and  the  leader  of  ail 
tiicse  was  the  "  merry  litf  le  Mrs.  Wiseman,'  as  these 
new-comers  called  her.  And  no  one,  to  see  her  entering 
^eart  and  gouI  into  these  festivities,  would  ever  dream 
A  the  miserable  secret  weighing  on  her  mind,  or  the 
litill  untamed,  restless  heart  that  struggled  to  find  forget- 
fu]nes'  in  constant  gayety. 

They  had  never  heard  of  Archie  since  his  departure 
save  once  thrt)Ugh  Louis,  who,  in  one  of  his  letters,  spoke 
of  having  met  him  in  Paris.  No  one  mentioned  his 
name  at  Sunset  Hall.  Gipsy  especially,  even  in  the  re- 
motest way,  never  alluded  to  him  ;  and  the  good,  cbcuse 
family  began  to  hope  she  had  quite  forgotten  him. 

And  now  we  have  come  back  to  tha',  merry  morn  in 
June  'vith  which  this  chapter  opened.  G'psy,  arrayed  in 
a  tasteful  riding-habit,  which  she  held  up  with  o  le  hand, 
while  in  the  other  she  held  a  silver-mounted  riding-wi:ip, 
stood  in  xhz  breez}  park,  watching  her  horse,  that  was 
neigh* ng  impatiently  to  be  off.  Mrs.  Gower  stood  be- 
hi:id  her,  looking  tioubled  and  anxious. 

"My  dear  Gipsy,"  she  was  saying,  **I  wish  you  would 
not  go  out  this  moining.  What  will  people  say  to  sec 
f  o  J  out  riding,  and  your  husband  having  fallen  frcra  his 
Lorse,  and  broken  two  of  his  ribs  and  his  leg,  last 
Q  ght?" 

'*  1  wish  it  had  been  his  neck  !" 

"  Oh,  child  !  don't  say  such  sinful,  wicked  things.  01 
course,  I  know  you  don't  mean  them  ;  but  then  it's  very 
wrong." 

"  1  don't  n,re,  aunty  ;  I  do  wish  it — there  !  I  don't 
•e«3  what  posbesses  him  to  cumber  the  earth  lo  long.    If 


Mi 


LOUIS. 


•%1 


■  \ 


tie  ioesn*t  give  up  the  ghost  soon,  I'll  administer  a  doM 
of  hemp  some  night — for  I  do  believe  his  c'cstiny  U 
har  ging.  If  there  ever  was  a  neck  mads  for  a  rope,  it's 
his — just  the  shape  for  it.  Jupe,  mind  what  you're  at 
there.     Don't  let  Mignonne  get  all  over  dut.1." 

"  Gipsy,  you  will  stay  ?*' 

" I  wont  stay,  aunty — not  if  it  were  Dr.  Wiseman's 
neck,  instead  of  his  ribs,  that  was  broken.  Oh,  yes,  I 
would,  too  ;  I'd  stay  home  then  for  joy.  I'm  off  now. 
Good-bye.  If  his  worship  becomes  extinct  during  my 
absence,  just  send  for  me,  and  I'll  shed  a  few  tears,  and 
everytliing  will  go  off  in  fashionable  style." 

And,  laughing  at  Mrs.  Gower's  scandalised  face, 
Gipsy  leaped  on  her  horse  and  rode  off. 

As  she  ascended  the  hills  behind  Mount  Sunset  she 
beheld,  opposite  to  her,  a  horseman  with  his  back  to- 
ward her,  standing  silent  and  motionless,  gazing  upon 
Sunsst  Hall. 

"  I  wonder  who  he  is  ?"  thought  Gipsy.  "  A  hand- 
Bome  fellow,  I  should  say,  for  his  form  is  superb.  Won- 
der if  he  knows  he's  standing  on  my  favorite  point  of 
view?  Well,  as  I've  no  notion  of  surrendering  my 
rights  to  him  or  any  one  else,  I'll  just  give  him  a  hint  ta 
get  out  of  that."  And,  suiting  the  action  to  the  words, 
Gipsy  shouted,  as  she  reined  up  her  Horse :  **■  Hallo, 
sir !" 

The  horseman  was  still  gazing  like  one  entnmced. 
He  evidently  did  not  hear  her. 

"  I  say,  sir !"  again  called  Gipsy. 

Still  no  answer. 

"  Well,  whoever  you  are,"  soliloquized  Gipsy,  "you're 
mighty  polite  to  refuse  answering  a  lidy.  I'll  try  again. 
Look  here,  sirrah,  will  you?" 

He  did  not  move. 

**  Well,  'pon  my  hoqor,  that's  decid;.J';T  ooel  t"  taU 


I 


t 


I.     . 


Ii-idd ' 


■  „  .t 


IV: 


«s» 


LODIS. 


Gipsy.  So  you  won't  pretend  to  notice  mc,  eh  Very 
well,  sir ;  -ve'll  see  whether  you'll  pay  more  attention  to 
a  lady  than  this." 

And  Gipsy  drew  a  pistol  from  her  belt  took  deliber 
ate  aim,  and  fired. 

It  was  well  she  doubted  not  her  own  skill ;  it  wai 
well  she  had  a  steady  hand  and  eye ;  for  the  bullet 
passed  through  the  crown  of  his  hat,  scarcely  two  inchei 
above  the  temple. 

With  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  anger,  the 
stranger  turned  round,  and  likewise  drew  a  pistol.  His 
eye  wandered  over  the  scene ;  but  he  could  see  no  one 
but  a  young  girl,  who  was  coolly  reloading  her  pistol,  as 
\i  about  to  send  a  second  ball  in  the  same  direction. 

"Good-morning,  madam.  Did  you  see  anyone  fire 
just  no:./'  said  the  stranger,  in  a  most  musical  voice,  at 
he  rode  toward  her. 

"Yes,  sir,  /fired  it,"  replied  Gipsy,  impudently. 

^^You  did  !"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  stare  of  surprise; 
**  and  may  I  ask,  madam,  if  it  was  your  intention  to  shoot 
me  ?" 

"  Of  course  it  was  !  My  aim  was  unfortunately  taken 
a  little  too  high.  If  you'll  just  stand  there  again,  I'll  try 
another  shot,"  replied  Gipsy  gravely. 

Again  the  stranger  stared,  as  though  doubting  the 
sanity  of  his  companion.  There  was  no  idiocy,  however, 
in  the  bright,  keen  eyes,  twinkling  with  suppressed  mirth, 
that  were  now  lifted  to  his  ;  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  the 
stranger  pointed  to  the  hole,  saying  : 

"  On  the  whole,  I  think  I  ha\e  no  particular  fancy  for 
being  made  a  target  of — esj>ecially  for  so  good  a  shot  as 
you.  May  I  ask  the  name  of  the  fair  amazon  I  have 
been  fortunate  enough  to  meet  ?" 

'*  You  muEt  be  a  stranger  here  not  to  know  it    I  hmv« 


I 


\   ■:;.>: 


took  deliber- 


LOurs, 


•5f 


leveral  names  ;  the  last  and  least  of  which  .8 — M:«.  Wise* 
man.    And  yours  ?" 

"  Louis  Oranmore,  very  much  at  y .  ur  service/*  he  an- 
swered, with  a  courtly  bow. 

"Oh  !"    Such  a  stare  as  he  got  from  those  bright  eyes 

-such  a  quick  flush  of  delight  as  overspread  the  pretty 

ice  beneath  liini — such  a  keen  scrutiny  as  his  face  un 

lerwent  at  that  moment.     He   noticed  it,  without  pre- 

lending  to  do  so  ;  but  there  was  an  ill-repressed  smile  of 

amusement  hovering  about  his  finely-chiseled  lip.     Yet 

it  was  evident  he  did  not  recognize  her. 

The  handsome,  impetuous  boy  had  grown  into  a  tall, 
elegant,  princely-looking  man.  His  complexion,  dark< 
ened  by  foreign  suns  to  a  clear,  manly  olive,  was  shaded 
fc?  a  profusion  of  jet-black  curling  hair.  His  fine  dark 
eyes  were  bright,  clear,  almost  piercing ;  his  upper  lip 
was  siiaded  by  a  black  mustache,  but  it  did  not  conceal 
its  scornful  upward  curve.  Pride  and  passion,  genius 
and  unbending  wil!  v.ere  written  in  every  lineament  of 
that  irresistibly  handsome  face  ;  yet  there  was  at  times  a 
winding  softness  in  it,  particularly  when  he  smiled.  He 
still  bore  a  strong  likeness  to  his  dead  father,  save  that 
Louis  was  much  handsomer.  There  was  something 
grand  and  noble  in  his  tall  yet  slight  figure,  mingled 
with  an  ease  and  grace  of  manner  that  bespoke  his  ac- 
quaintance with  polished  society.  His  voice,  that  could 
at  times  ring  with  the  clarion  tones  of  command,  never 
addressed  a  woman  without  being  modulated  to  the  soft- 
est and  most  musical  of  sounds.  Such  had  our  old  fa* 
vorite  Louis  become — verv  little  like  the  Louis  we  once 
linew,  we  must  own — very  little  like  the  guileless,  inno- 
cent Louis,  this  gay  ycung  man  of  pleasure. 

Perhaps  something  of  all  this  was  floating^  througfh 
'Jie  mind  of  Gipsy  :  for  in  spile  of  the  admiration  that 


% 


■*■  .    'i 

'J 


6    "'f."    ',   ■.        « 


•i^      •    ?!:    \ 


\ 


f  ; 


LOUIS. 


ehone  in  her  now  radiant  face,  she  dnished  her  scrutiny 

with  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  fair  Judy,  do  you  find  me  so  very  hideous  that 
you  thus  turn  away?"  he  asked,  fixing  his  deep,  dark 
eyes  in  evident  amusement  on  her  face. 

Gipsy  would  liave  blushed  had  she  known  how  ;  bu! 
it  was  sometldng  she  knew  very  little  about,  so  sh<< 
merely  answered  : 

*'  Well,  I  think  I  have  seen  persons  almost  as  frightful 
looking  as  you  before.  Vou  are  a  stranger  here,  I  pr^ 
sume  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  though  this  is  my  native  village,  yet  I  have 
iieen  absent  for  many  years  in  Europe.  May  I  ask  il 
you  are  acquainted  with  the  inmates  of  Sunset  Hall 
yonder  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I've  seen  them." 

"  Are  they  all  well  .>" 

"  Why,  yes,  I  believe  so  ;  ali  buv  api — I  mean  Dr. 
Wiseman." 

"  Dr.  Wiseman  !  What  has  he  to  do  there  ? — he  doa 
not  belong  to  the  family." 

"  Yes,  he  does." 

"  Whatr 

"  He  married  a  ward  of  Squire  Erliston'i — Gipsy- 
something,  I  think  they  called  her.  Gow — Gow— 
trower,  I  believe,  was  the  name — and  tLcn,  with  his 
daughter,  came  there  to  live." 

*'  Why,  is  it  possible  ?  Has  little  Gipsy  Grower  mar 
ried  that  old  man — old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather?' 
exclaimed  Louis,  -n  unbounded  amazement. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  after  that,  nothing  will  surprise  me.  And 
Archie  never  mentioned  a  word  of  it,"  laid  Louit,  in  i 
tort  of  soliloquy  ;  "and  my — and  Mrs.  Oranmore,  how 
.1  she  ?" 


LOUIS. 


■ii 


I  ^^;! 


src  ? — he  doa 


^  Pretty  well.    She  has  not  been  verj  itroBf  lateljp  " 

•*  Poor  mother  !     And  the  squire  ?** 

"Is  quite  well." 

"  You  reside  in  St.  Mark's,  I  presune  ?" 

"  Why,  yes.  Nonsense,  Louis  !  Don't  you  know 
me?" 

"  Hallo  !  No,  it's  not ;  yes,  it  is,  though ;  it's  Gipsy 
Gjwer,  is  it  not  ?"  cried  Louis. 

•*No,  sir.  Mrs.  Niciiolas  Wiseman,  \i  you  please," 
!»aid  Gipsy,  drawing  herself  up. 

•'  My  dear  little  Gipsy,  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you 
again.  How  handsome  you  have  grown  !  Allow  me  to 
embrace  my  little  playmate  ?" 

Accepting  his  salute  with  saucy  cordiality,  Gipsy 
turned  her  horse's  head  in  the  direction  of  the  Hall. 

"  Tell  me  now  Louis,  what  brings  you  home  so  sud- 
denly ?"  asked  Gipsy. 

"  Why.  to  confess  the  truth,  I  grew  tired  of  sight- 
seeing, and  began  to  feel  homesick  for  the  old,  familiar 
faces  ;  so,  wishing  to  surprise  you  all,  I  started  without 
sending  you  word,  and  liere  I  am.  But,  Gipsy,  whatever 
possessed  you  to  marry  that  old  man  ?" 

"  Love,  of  course.  People  always  marry  for  love,  you 
know." 

"  Pshaw  !  Gipsy,  I  know  better  than  that.  Why  did 
you  jilt  poor  Archie?  I  met  him  ir.  Paris,  half  crazy, 
one  would  imagine.  He  answered  my  questions  ration- 
ally enough,  until  we  came  to  apeak  of  you,  when  he 
burst  forth  into  a  torrent  of  invectives  against  flirts  and 
deceivers  in  general,  and  then  seized  his  hat  and  fled 
fr:;m  the  room,  leaving  me  to  conjecture  as  best  I  might 
hij  meaning.  Come,  Gipsy,  own  up,  are  you  not  the 
cause  of  all  this  frenzy  ?" 

Gipsy's  face  had  grown  very  pale  ;  her  ejet  were  bent 


f: 


» 


■ 

■ 
■ 

r 


u 


,  I 


1 1 


■41a 


LOUIS. 


on  the  ground,  her  lips  firmly  compresMd,  M  the  •&• 
twereJ,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice : 

''Louis,  don't  talk  to  me  on  this  subject.  lam  wicked 
and  wretch  ;d  enough  the  best  of  times,  but  I  always  feel 
like  a  perfect  fiend  when  this  subject  is  mentioned.  Suf- 
fice it  for  you  to  know  that  fate  had  decreed  I  should  wed 
Dr.  Wiseman  ;  no  earthly  power  could  have  prevented 
it,  therefore  1  became  his  wife." 

*'  Did  they  dare  to  force  you  ?"  exclaimed  Louis,  with 
a  kindling  eye.     "  If  so " 

"No,  no,  Louis;  I  could  have  refused  if  I  would 
Don't  mention  this  subject  more.  See,  there  is  the  old 
hall ;  and  there  at  the  gate  stands  Minnette  Wiseman, 
my  daughter  now,  you  know.    Is  she  not  a  beautiful  girl  ?" 

"  Beautiful  indeed  !"  exclaimed  Louis,  enthusiasti- 
cally, pausing  involuntarily  to  gaze  upon  her. 

Splendid  indeed  looked  Minnette.  Her  dress  of 
black  (she  always  wore  black)  fluttering  in  the  morniog 
breeze,  and  confined  at  the  slender  waist  by  a  dark  crim- 
son  belt.  Her  long,  shiny  blue-black  hair  was  twined  in 
classic  braids  around  her  superb  head.  Her  glorious 
black  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  glancing  waters  of  the  bay 
and  no  June  rose  ever  bloomed  a  more  brilliant  crim- 
son than  the  hue  of  her  cheek.  She  might  have  been 
an  Eastern  queen — for  her  beauty  was  truly  regal,  vith 
her  dark,  oriental  face,  and  splendid  Syrian  eye  ;  but 
there  was  too  mucli  fire  and  passion  in  her  nature,  and 
too  few  womanly  traits  and  feelings. 

"  Oh,  Minnette,  guess  who's  come  !"  cried  Gipsy,  rid- 
ing up  to  where  she  stood. 

'*  Who  ?"  said  Minnette,  breathlessly,  at  her  eye  fell 
on  Louis. 

The  next  moment  she  started  convulsively ;  the  blood 
rushed  in  torrents  to  her  brow.  ^S^  had  recognixed  him, 
though  Gipsy  had  not. 


LOUIS. 


^l 


**  It's  I^o  lis,"  said  Gipsy — **  Louis  Oranmore  !  Comtf 
Louis  !  come  !  Miss  Minnette.  I  am  going  up  to  the  house 
to  tell  them  you  have  come." 

She  was  off  like  a  flash,  up  the  lawn,  and  in  the  house, 
while  Louis  leaped  from  his  horse,  and  with  courtly 
grace  laised  Minnette's  hand  to  his  lips;  while  she, 
pf'ssing  her  hand  to  her  heart,  that  beat  and  throbbed  as 
though  it  would  force  its  way  to  him,  strove  to  return 
his  salutation  It  was  a  strange  thing  to  see  the  cold, 
marble-like  Minnette  so  moved. 

"How  everything  has  changed  since  I  left  home !" 
said  Louis  ;  "  the  place  itself  seems  changed,  and  you 
more  than  all.  I  left  you  a  little  girl,  thoughtful  beyond 
your  years,  and  I  return  to  find  you " 

"  The  most  beautiful  woman  my  eyes  ever  rested  on," 
he  would  have  said,  but  she  raised  her  head,  and  some- 
thing in  the  expression  of  her  face  checked  him. 

No  marble  ever  was  v^hiter  or  more  cold,  as  she  said  : 

"  Yes,  all  has  changed,  and  none  more  so  than  your 
lormtr  favorite.  Celeste." 

"  Ah  !  little  Celeste — how  is  she  ?  I  had  forgotten  to 
ask  for  her.     I  trust  she  is  well  ?" 

"  I   presume  so.     I  know  nothing  to  the  contrary." 

"  I  remember  her  a  lovely  child  ;  I  suppose  she  is  an 
equally  lovely  girl  ?"  said  Louis,  carelessly. 

A  scorching,  scailu ng  glance  shot  from  the  lightning 
eyes  of  Minnette;  biit,  without  answering  him,  she 
turned  away,  and  walked  steadily  into  the  house. 

"  Strange,  incomprehensible  girl  !"  said  Louis,  look- 
ing in  surprise  after  her,  "  How  that  flashing  glance 
reminds  me  of  the  Minnette  of  other  days  !  Have  I  said 
anything  to  offend  her,  1  wonder  ?  Heigho  !  what  a  ra- 
diant creature  she  is,  to  be  sure  !  What  would  not  some 
of  the  gay  court  beauties  I  know  give  for  that  superb 
form  and  glorious  face  !     Well,  I  must  not  fall  in  love 


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LOUIS, 


Pi  f 
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V 


with  her,  however,  if  I  can  help  it.  Here  comes  :hat 
airy  little  mountain  spr.te,  Gipsy  !  and  now  for  my  lady 
mother !" 

"  Come,  f^(.  jis,  co;;;c  '     ibe  cried,  darting  in  again. 

Louis  fjllowed  \  ^r  '■\.x  'ed  the  way  to  his  mother's 
.hamber.  Then  opening  the  *  or,  she  ushered  him  in 
«nd  closing  it  alter  her,  immediately  retreated. 

Lizzie  sat  in  an  easy-chair,  a  crimson  shawl  wrapped 
around  her,  her  eyes  bright,  her  pale  cheeks  flushed  with 
expectation.  Slie  arose  at  his  entrance,  and  the  next 
moment  was  clasped  in  his  arms,  while  their  mutual  ex- 
clamations  were  : 

"  My  dear  Louis  !"  • 

"  My  dearest  mother  !" 

There  was  a  moment's  silenc* ;  then  Lizzie  raised 
her  head  and  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot,  her  face 
sparkling  with  pride  and  admiration. 

"  How  tall  you  have  grown  !  and  how  handsome  you 
are  ! — handsome  enough  for  a.  king,  I  think,  Louis  !"  she 
said,  delightedly. 

**Are  kings  handsomer  than  other  people,  my 
dear  mother  ?"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"  Why,  I  suppose  so  ;  I  never  saw  one.  You  are  the 
rery  in^uge  of  your  poor  dead  father,  too !  Dear  me! 
i7hat  an  age  it  seems  since  we  parted  last !"  said  Lizzie, 
jiinking  back  in  her  seat,  with  a  sigh. 

"I  am  sorry  to  find  you  so  ill,  mother,"  said  Louis, 
gazing  sadly  into  her  thin,  pale  face,  from  which  the 
bright  glow  was  fast  fading. 

"Oh,  I  am  always  worse  in  the  spring  than  at  any 
other  time.  In  a  month  or  two  I  will  be  quite  a  differ- 
ent-looking individi'Hl,"  said  Lizzie,  hopefully. 

An  hour  passed  away,  ana  then  there  came  a  tap  at 
the  door.     Louis  arose  and  opened  it,  and  beheld  Gipsy. 

"  Well  Louis,  if  you're  done  talking  to  your  mother 


LOUIS. 


«<l 


Tou'd  br<  »r  come  down  and  sc«  Guardj.  He'i  just 
7okv  up,  but  he  doesn'*^  know  yet  you've  womc,"  said 
Gipsy. 

Louis  went  down  stairs,  taking  half  the  staircase  at  a 
bound  in  his  haste.  Pushing  open  the  parlor  do.>r,  ho 
unceremoniously  entered  the  presence  of  the  squire,  who, 
after  his  old  habit,  lay  in  a  lounging  chair,  with  his  feet 
stretched  upon  another,  smoking  his  pipe  with  the  be- 
nign air  of  a  man  at  peace  with  himself  and  the  rest 
of  mankind. 

At  the  abrupt  entrance  of  Louis  he  looked  up  with 
A  start  and  muttered  something  suspiciously  like  ai? 
oath  at  seeing  a  tall,  dark  foreigner — as  he  supposed 
him  to  be — standing  before  him. 

"  Eh  ?  who  the  deuce — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  sit 
down,"  said  the  squire,  staring  with  all  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  not  know  me,  my  dear  grandfather  ?"  said 
Louis,  advancing  witli  extended  hand. 

*'  Why  !  Lord  bless  me,  if  it  is  not  Louis  Oranmore,** 
said  the  squire,  jumping  up,  "  with  as  much  hair  on  his 
face  as  a  chimpanzee  monkey  has  on  its  body.  Bless 
my  heart !  this  is  a  surprise  !  When  did  you  get  home  ? 
Eh,  when  did  you  come  ?" 

"About  an  hour  agu,  si^" 

"  And  you're  Louis  ^  Well,  well !  Why,  you  weren't 
as  high  as  that  when  you  left,"  holding  his  hand  about 
three  inches  from  the  ground,  "  and  here  you  come  back 
as  tall  as  a  lamp-post,  with  mustache  enough  for  a  shoc- 
brusli,  and  dressed  like  a  Spanish  grandee.  'All's 
vanity,' as  Solomon  says.  Well,  and  how  did  you  get 
on  with  those  old  humbugs  you  went  off  to  see— ch?" 

**  What  old  humbugs,  sir  ?" 

"  Pooh  !  you  know  very  well — the  old  masters." 

^Oh  I  I  flatter  myself  I  have  seen  them  to  some  pui- 
pose/'  said  Louis,  laughing  ;  *'  but,  to  change  the  subject* 

12 


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LOUIS. 


■\Y    I 


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I  perceive  you  have  made  a  few  changes  in  tae  domettit 
economy  of  Sunset  Hall  during  my  absence." 

"  Why,  yes,  my  boy  ;  a  few,  a  few  !  Gipsy's  married 
to  the  old  doctor,  and  didn't  want  to,  either ;  but  we 
coaxed  her  round  and  took  her  while  she  vcas  '  in  the 
humor,'  as  Solomon  says." 

*'  I  trust,  sir,  Gipsy  was  not  compelled  to  marry  thij 
old  man  ?"  said  Louis,  with  a  darkening  brow. 

**  Pooh  !  pshaw  !  of  course  not  !  Married  him  of  her 
own  free  will — just  like  Gipsy,  always  doing  what  no- 
body would  expect ;  *  women  are  like  mules,'  as  Solomon 
says — want  them  to  go  one  way,  and  they'll  be  sure  to  go 
t'other,"  said  the  squire,  uneasily,  evidently  anxious  to 
change  the  subject.  "  Have  you  seen  old  Wiseman  and 
his  daughter  since  your  return  ?" 

*'  I  have  not  seen  the  doctor,  but  bis  daughter  I  have 
She  is  a  most  beautiful  girl,"  replied  Louis. 

"Bah!  'All  that  glitters  is  not  gold,'  as  Solomon 
says.  She's  a  proud,  sullen,  conceited  minx,  thafs  what 
she  is — never  liked  her.  And  mind,  my  young  jacka- 
napes, you  mustn't  go  and  fall  in  love  with  her.  You 
must  look  out  for  an  heiress  ;  not  a  girlliice  her,  without 
a  cent  to  bless  herself  with." 

*'  I  thought  the  doctor  was  rich,"  said  Louis. 

"  So  he  is  ;  but  stingy — infernally  stingy  !  Won't 
give  her  a  copper  till  his  death  !" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  have  no  present  intention  of  falling  in 
love  with  her  or  any  one  else  ;  out  if  I  had,  Minnette 
Wi^icman  would  be  just  the  girl  for  me.  She  is  hand- 
some, refii.ed,  intellectual,  as  any  one  can  tell  from  her 
conversation      What  more  would  a  man  have  ?" 

"  Stulf  !  moonsliine  !  *  Fine  words  butter  10  oar- 
snips,'  as  Solomon  says.  She  wants  the  gilt — the  money, 
ray  boy.  Love  in  a  cottage  sounds  /cry  fine,  but  come 
10  real  life  and  see  what  it  is.     No,  sir  *  I  will  atTerheai 


y  s  married 


LOVE    AT    FIRST    SIGHT. 


•«y 


to  your  marrying  a  poor  girl — never!  The  her  of 
Erliston  and  Oraninorc  must  find  an  heiress  for  a  wife. 
No  matter  about  love,  you  know  ;  money's  the  tning. 
'When  poverty  comes  in  at  the  door  love  flies  out  of  the 
window,'  as  Solomon  savs." 


I 


> 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


LOVE     AT    FIRST    SIGHT. 


Iter  I  have. 


'Oh,  her  smile  it  seemed  half  hoi/, 
At  if  drawn  fium  thou^rhts  more  fi»K 
Than  our  common  jebtings  ar«  ; 
And  if  any  paiii'.'jr  drew  her, 
He  would  [taint  her,  unaware, 
With  a  halo  round  her  hair." 

— E.  B.  hAsf^^KMU. 


WEEK   had   passed  avvay  at   Mount  Sunset 
Hall  since  the  arrival  of  Louis. 

It  had  been  a  \vcek  of  unremitting  storm. 
Rain,  rain,  rain,  from  morning  till  night,  and 
from  night  to  morning,  without  ceasing. 
No  one  could  go  abroad  in  such  weather ;  so  the  ai 
rival  of  Louis  remained  a  secret  in  the  neighborhood. 
It  is  true,  Gipsy,  who  feared  storm   no  more  than  sxia 
shine,  would  have  ridden  forth,  but  preparations  wc.  c 
being  made  for  a  grand  party  at  the  mansion,  in  honoi 
of  Louis'  arrival,  and   slie  v.as  forced  to  stay  at  home  to 
assist.     The  whole  household,  with   the    exception    of 
Louis    and  Minnette,  were  pressed    into  the  business. 
Even  Lizzie  sat  in  the  dining-room  and  stoned  raisins, 
and  sorted  fruit,  and  pickles,  and  pieserves,  and  looked 


I 


j68 


lOy£    AT   FIRST   SlOMT. 


over  dresses,  and  laces,  and  muslins,  and  flowers,  witk 
unabated  zeal.  Gipsy  might  have  been  seen  tiyin^  about 
in  calico  long-shorts  from  morning  till  night,  entering 
heart  and  soul  into  the  excitement.  Jupiter  and  Mrs. 
.iovver  were  sent  to  the  city  for  "  things,"  and  the  squire 
was  coniinualiy  blowing  and  blustering  about,  and  over- 
seeing all  in  general. 

Minnette  was  tooindolent  to  hare  anything  to  do  with 
it,  and  so  was  left  to  herself — and  Louis.  That  young 
gentleman,  seeing  how  busy  all  were,  gravely  offered 
his  services  in  tho  kitchen,  saying,  with  the  assistance  of 
Tociv.  he  had  no  doubt  but  he  would  learn  how  to  wash 
dishes  and  make  himself  useful  in  time.  His  offer,  how- 
ever, like  the  manuscripts  otten  sent  to  publishers,  was 
*'  respectfully  declined,"  and  he  and  Minnette  being  thus 
thrown  together,  became,  during  the  week  of  the  storm, 
the  best  of  friends — perhaps  something  more. 

Their  mornings  were  usually  spent  in  the  library,  she 
embroidering  while  he  read  aloud  poetry — dangerous 
occupation  for  a  young  and  handsome  man.  Then  he 
had  such  long  stories  and  anecdotes  to  tell  her,  of  his 
travels,  of  his  '*  hair-breadth  escapes  by  flood  and  field  ;" 
and  it  did  flatter  his  vanity  a  little  to  see  the  work  drop 
unnt;ticed  from  her  hand,  her  ciieek  flush  or  pale,  her 
breath  come  quick  and  short  at  his  words.  Their  after- 
noons were  mostly  devoted  to  music;  she  seated 
»t  the  piano  playing  and  singing  his  favorite  songs, 
chietly  old  Scotch  and  German  love  ditties,  which  he 
liked  better  than  Italian  songs  or  opera  music,  m  spite 
of  his  usually  fashionable  taste.  Ar"*  Minnette — 
wild,  passionate  girl  that  she  was — who  can  tell  the 
tumultuous  thoughts  that  set  her  heart  throbbing  so  fast, 
01  brought  so  vivid  a  crimson  to  her  blooming  cheek,  as 
he  bent  over  her,  entranced — his  da-k,  glossy  locks 
iBingling  with  hers  ?    Perhaps  he  did  not  exactly  make 


.1 

i 


.  i.^  .mmf,m*0lt0mm 


LOVR    AT    FIRST    SIOHT.  ^ 

ove  to  her,  but  he  was  too  thoroup;h  a  man  of  the  worltt 
not  to  perceive  that  she  loved  him,  as  only  one  of  her 
fie. «',  passionate  nature  can  love.  The  proud,  haughtj 
girl,  who  had  all  her  life  been  a  marble  statue  to  others, 
was  gentle  and  timid  as  a  child  before  hirr:.  And  he — I 
canrot  excuse  him — but  though  he  loved  her  not  he 
like!  this  devoted  homage,  this  fiery  heart  he  had  tamed 
and  v'on  ;  and  by  his  manner,  almost  unconsciously, 
led  lier  to  believe  her  love  was  returned.  For  the  first 
timf  in  her  life,  she  was  supremely  happy,  yielding  her- 
self, without  restraint,  to  the  intoxicating  spcli  of  bis 
eye  and  voice. 

Gipsy's  keen  eyes  saw  all  this,  too — saw  it  with  regret 
»nd  appreliension,  and  with  instinctive  dread. 

**  Minnette's  marble  heart  had  been  changed  to  quiver- 
ing flesh  at  last,"  was  her  soliloquy.  *'  She  Itrnes  him, 
and  (it  is  the  old  story)  he  likes  her.  Heaven  forbid  ho 
should  tritie  with  her  !  for  woe  to  you,  Louis  Oranmore; 
if  the  unchained  force  of  Minnette's  lion-passions  is 
aroused.  Better  for  you  you  had  never  been  born,  than 
that  the  mad  love  of  her  tiger  heart  should  turn  to  still 
madder  hate.  S.ie  can  never  make  him  or  any  one  else 
happy  ;  she  is  too  fierce,  too  jealous,  too  exacting.  I  wish 
she  had  never  come  ere.  I  will  ride  over  to-night  or 
to-morrow,  and  bring  Celeste  here ;  when  he  sees  her^  I 
know  he  can  never  love  Minnette.  It  may  not  be  too 
late  yet  to  remedy  the  evil.  The  love  of  Celeste  would 
ennoble  him — raise  him  above  the  earth,  that  of  Minnette 
will  drag  him  down,  down,  to  darkness  and  doom.  I 
must  prevent  it." 

Too  late  !  too  late  !  Gipsy.  The  evil  has  been  done 
that  can  never  be  remedied.  The  "marble-heart"  it 
awakened  from  its  long  repose  at  last. 

The  cards  of  invitation  had  been  sent  out  for  milef 
around.     Early  in  the  evening  of  the  day  appointed 


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170 


ZOFE    AT    FIRST    SIGHT. 


Gipsy  ordered  the  carriage  and  drove  to  Valley  Cottago 
Miss  Hagar,  gniy,  grim,  and  unchanged,  stifi  And  up- 
right as  ever,  sat  (as  usual)  knitting  in  the  chimney-cor- 
ner. A  perfect  bower  of  neatness  was  that  little  cottage 
— outride  iilinosi  hidden  in  its  wealth  of  vines  and  leaves — 
inside,  bright  with  cleanliness,  and  odoriferous  with  the 
perl u me  of  Howers  that  came  drifting  in  through  the 
vvliilo  draped  windows  and  open  door.  And  there,  sit- 
ting by  the  window  in  her  neat-fitting  muslin  dress, 
bright,  "ainshiny,  and  smiling,  sat  sweet  Celeste,  the 
**  Star  of  the  Valley,"  celebrated  for  her  beauty  for  miles 
around. 

"Ah,  Mi  s  Hagar!  how  d'ye  do?  Pleasant  day," 
said  Gipsy,  flashing  in  after  her  old  fashion.  "Celeste, 
throw  do'.vn  i!iat  sewing,  and  come  right  off  to  the  Hall 
with  me  ;  I  want  you." 

"Oh  !  really,  my  dear  Gipsy,  you  must  excuse  me,' 
smiled  Celeste ;  '*  I  am  making  this  dress  for  poor  old 
Widow  Mayer,  and  must  finish  it  to-night.  So  I  cannot 
possibly  Pfo." 

*'  Now,  that's  just  like  you.  Celeste — always  sewing, 
or  sitting  up,  or  writing  letters,  or  reading  the  Testament 
to  some  poor  old  unfortunate,  instead  of  taking  any 
pleasure  for  yourself,  I  declare  you  ought  to  be  a  Sister 
of  Charity,  at  once  !  But  you  sha'n't  work  yourself  to 
death  for  any  cne;  so  come  along.  I'll  send  the  old 
lady  over,  to-morrow,  every  dress  I  have,  sooner  than 
want  you  to-night.*' 

"  But  Miss  ilagar,  Gipsy ;  it  is  not  right  for  me  to 
leave  her  alone.     She  is  so  lonesome  without  me." 

"  No,  she's  not.  You're  glad  to  get  *'d  of  her  •  ain't 
fou.  Miss  Hagar  ?" 

"  I  should  be  pleased  to  have  her  gro.  It  is  nght  sh€ 
•hould  enjoy  herself  with  the  reet  of  the  young  folks," 
Mid  Miss  Hagar. 


LOVE    AT    FTRST    SIGHT. 


•V 


"There  !  you  hear  that  ?    Now  you  go  and  get  readj  ?" 

"But  really,  dear  Gipsy " 

"Now,  none  of  your  '  dear  Gipsy-ing'  me  !  I  won't 
j>ten  to  anotlicr  word!  Vou  musf  come;  that's  the 
whole  of  it,'  said  Gipsy,  seizing  the  work,  and  throwing 
it  into  a  corner,  and  pulling  the  laughing  Celeste  by  main 
force  from  the  room. 

"But,  Gipsy,  why  are  you  so  anxious  for  me  to  go 
with  you  to-night  ?"  said  Celeste,  when  they  had  reached 
her  chamber. 

"  Oh,  because  I  have  my  raysofts  for  it,"  as  little  Pat 
Flynn  says.  "  Now  I  want  you  to  look  your  very  pret- 
tiest to-night,  Celeste.  In  fact,  you  must  be  perfectly 
irresistible." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  arc  going  to  play  me  some  trick, 
Gipsy  !"  said  Celeste,  smiling  and  hesilating. 

"Oh!  honor  bright!  Come,  hurry  up!  Put  on 
your  white  muslin  ;  you  loc  k  better  in  it  than  anything 
else." 

"  Besides  being  the  best  dress  I  have,"  said  Celeste, 
as  she  took  it  down  ;  for  the  cottage  maiden  always 
dressed  with  the  utmost  plainness  and  simplicity. 

"I'll  run  oui  and  gather  you  some  rosebuds  for  your 
hair,"  said  Gipsy,  as  Celeste  began  to  dress. 

"But,  Indeed,  Gipsy,  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  so 
gayly  attired,"  said  Celeste,  anxiously. 

"  Nonsense  !  what  is  there  gay  in  a  fe'r  white  rose- 
buds, I'd  like  to  know  ?  Vou  shall  wear  them,"  said 
Gipsv,  hurrying  from  the  room. 

Half  an  hour  later  and  Celeste's  toilet  was  complete 
Very  lovely  she  looked  in  her  simple  white  robe,  fast- 
ened at  ler  slender  waist  by  a  blue  ribbon,  aer  shining 
hair  of  pale  gold  falling  like  a  shower  of  sunlight  over 
her  beautifully  white  and  reunded  neck,  and  wreathed 
with  moss  roses.    Her  fair,  rose-tinted  face,  with  its  deep 


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ZOr^    AT    FIRST 


blue  eyes,  shaded  by  long,  sunoy  lashes  ;  her  red,  imil 
ing  lips  ;  her  softly  thished   cheeks,  and  broad,  tran»> 
parent  foi  eliead,  bright  with  youth,  and  goodness,  and 
loveliness  ! 

"  Why,  Celeste,  you  arc  radiant  to-night — lovely,  be- 
witching, angelic  I"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  gazing  upon  hci 
in  sort  of  rapture. 

"  Nonsense,  dear  Gipsy  I"  said  Celeste,  smiling,  and 
blushing  even  at  the  words  of  the  little  hoyden.  "Art 
you,  too,  becoming  a  flatterer?" 

"Not  I;  I  would  scorn  to  be!  You  know  I  never 
flatter.  Celeste  ;  but  you  seem  to  have  received  a  baptism 
of  living  beauty  to-night." 

Celeste  very  well  knew  Gipsy  never  flattered.  Can- 
dor was  a  part  of  the  elf's  nature  ;  so,  blushing  still 
more,  she  threw  a  light  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and 
entered  the  sitting-room.  Both  girls  took  leave  of  Miss 
Hagar,  and  entered  the  carriage,  that  whirled  them  rap- 
idly in  the  direction  of  Mount  Sunset. 

"Gipsy,  I  know  you  have  some  design  inalltLiir 
laid  Celeste,  as  they  drove  along. 

"  Well  ;  suppose  I  have  ?" 

"  Why,  I  shall  be  tempted  to  take  it  very  hard  i/ideed. 
Why  have  you  brought  me  here,  Gipsy  Y* 

"  Well,  to  meet  a  friend.     There  now  !" 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  Sha'n't  tell  you  yet.     Here  we  are  at  home.** 

Celeste  glanced  from  the  window,  and  saw  the  court- 
yard full  of  carriages,  the  h?ll  illuminated,  an;!  thronfi 
of  people  pouring  in. 

"  Is  it  possible,  Gipsy,  this  is  a  large  party  Y* 

"  Yes ;  just  so,  my  dear.' 

**  Oh,  Gipsy  !  it  was  too  bad  of  you  to  entrap  me  i» 
this  way  !"  said  Celeste,  reproachfully. 

'  Fiddle  !  it's  a  great  thing  to  go  to  a  party,  ain't  W 


vi 


LOVR    AT    FIRST    SIGHT, 


■Tl 


iualltLiir 


lard  indeed 


Come,  jump  out,  and  conic  up  to  my  dressing  room ;  I 
have  a  still  greater  surprise  in  store  for  you." 

Celeste  pafscd,  with  Gipsy,  through  a  side  door,  and 
both  ran,  unobserved,  up  to  her  room.  Then — after  an 
hour  or  so,  which  it  took  Gipsy  to  dress,  both  descended 
to  the  saloon,  v/here  the  dancing  was  already  at  its 
height. 

Their  entrance  into  the  crowded  rooms  produced  a 
decided  sensation,  Gipsy,  blazing  with  jewels,  moved 
ilong  like  a  spirit  of  light,  and  Celeste,  in  her  fair^ 
moonlight  beanty,  looking  like  some  stray  a'igel  newly 
dropped  in  their  midst. 

Gipsy  led  her  guest  to  the  upper  tnd  of  the  room, 
under  a  raised  arch  of  flowers  that  filled  the  air  with 
fragrance. 

"Stay  here  until  I  come  back  for  you,"  she  whis- 
pered, as  she  turnetl,  and  disappeared  among  the  throng. 

Flitting  hither  and  thither  like  a  sunbeam,  she  paused 
until  she  discovered  Louis,  with  Minnette  leaning  on  his 
arm,  calling  up  the  smiles  and  blushes  to  her  face  at  his 
all-powerful  will. 

"  Louis  I  Louis  !  come  with  me  !  I  want  you  a  mo- 
ment. You'll  excuse  him,  Minnette,  will  you  not  ?"  said 
Gipsy. 

"Oh,  certainly  !"  said  Minnette,  with  a  radiant  look, 
little  dreaming  for  what  purpose  he  was  taken  from  her. 

Passing  her  arm  through  his,  Gipsy  led  him  to  where 
he  could  obtain  a  full  view  of  Celeste,  without  being 
•ccn  by  her. 

*'  Look  !"  she  said,  pointing. 

He  looked,  started  suddenly,  and  then  stood  like  one 
transfixed,  with  his  eyes  riveted  to  the  glorious  vision 
before  him. 

She  stood  under  the  flowery  canopy,  robed  in  white, 
crowned  with  roses,  leaning  against  a  marble  statue  oi 


I: 


t    II 


If, 


•74 


LOVE    AT    FIRST    SIGBF, 


Hebe,  herself  a  thousand  times  lovelier  than  that  ex- 
quisitely sculptured  form  and  face.  This  was  his  ideal, 
found  at  last — this  tlic  face  and  figure  that  had  haunted 
his  dreams  all  his  life,  but  had  never  been  found  before  ; 
just  such  an  angelic  creature  he  had  striven  all  his  life 
to  produce  on  canvas,  and  always  failed.  He  stood  mo- 
tionless, enchanted,  drinkinjT  in  to  intoxication  the  be* 
wildering  draught  of  her  beauty. 

"  Louis,"  said  Gipsy,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

He  heard  not,  answered  not;  he  stood  gazing;  like 
one  chained  to  the  spot. 

"  Louis,"  she  said  in  a  louder  tone. 

Still  she  was  unheeded, 

"  Louis,  you  provoking  wretch  I"  she  said,  giving 
^im  a  shake. 

*'  Well  ?"  he  said,  without  removing  his  dazzled  cyci 
from  the  vision  before  him. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her  ?    Is  she  not  lovely  ?" 

"  Lovely  I"  he  repeated,  rousing  himself  from  the 
trance  into  which  he  had  fallen.  ''  Gipsy,  she  is  divine. 
Do  not  praise  her  beauty  ;  no  words  can  do  it  justice." 

"  Whew  ! — caught  already  !  There's  love  at  first  sight 
foi  you." 

"Gipsy,  who  is  she — that  vision  of  light — my  life 
dream — that  I  have  found  at  last  ?" 

"Then  you  don't  know  her ?  Bless  your  dear,  inno 
cent  heart !  that's  Celeste — your  *  Star  of  the  Valley.' 
JCM  know  !"      '  '• 

'*  Yiff},  ves  '  I  recognize  her  now — my  Star  of  the 
Valley,   rightly   named.      Would   she  were  mine  I"  hs 


wt\ 


» .'-'("-.« 


5  0  k\  N'wrt  lone. 


*  SImII  1  pr<:'5eni.  you?" 

*'  Dc;  ,i  jIac  know  I  am  here  ?" 

"  Nc  t  i  oi«iiVt   ,^11  her  a  word  about  it" 

**T/?»?s  Ita  ^e  mt      I  will  present  myself.' 


LOVE    .'IT    FTRST    SIGffl. 


«75 


"All  right ;  that'll  save  nic  some  trouble  ;  and  I  hear 
lomebody  over  there  iiiiiging  out  for  Mrs.  Wiseman. 
So  au  revoir,  and  Cupid  be  with  you  !" 

Ana,  laugiiin<i;Iy,  Gipsy  glided  away,  and  Louis  went 
up  and  j^tciod  before  Celeste. 

Siie  looked  up  with  a  start,  to  find  the  handsomest 
man  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life  standing  before  her, 
gazing  upon  her  with  such  a  look  of  intense  admiration 
in  his  deep,  dark  eyes,  that  the  blood  rushed  to  her  cheek, 
and  the  white  lids  dropped  over  the  shrinking  blue  eyes. 
Another  moment,  and  both  her  hands  were  clasped  in 
his  ;  while  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  was  low,  but  full  of 
passion  : 

"  Celeste  !  Celeste  !  little  sister  ! — do  you  not  know 
me?" 

""  Louis  !"  broke  from  her  lips,  in  a  wild  exclamation 
of  joy. 

"  Yes,  sweet  sister,  your  boy-friend,  Louis,  home 
again." 

"Oh,  Louis,  I  amxi^glad  !"  she  said,  lifting  her  cloud- 
less blue  eyes  to  his,  radiant  with  delight. 

"  Then  you  have  not  forgotten  me  ?  I  feared  you 
had,"  he  said,  bending  over  her,  and  holding  fast  the 
little  hand  that  lay  imprisoned  in  his. 

"  Forget  you  ! — oh,  no,"  she  said,  her  heart  fluttering 
wildly  that  moment  against  a  little  golden  cross — hu 
parting  gilt,  which  had  lain  on  her  bosom  all  those 
years. 

There  was  a  look  of  eager  delight  on  his  face  at  her 
words.  She  saw  it,  and  grew  embarrassed.  Withdraw- 
ing her  hand  from  his,  she  said,  in  a  more  conposed 
voice  : 

"  When  did  you  arrive  ?" 

**  About  a  week  a^o.     I  would  have  gono  to  wm  y^u, 


■■1 
'I 


.,  '''/)V 


'(    ::0 


"-jt 


I 


i  ii, 


i  i 


*  u 


n 


■»«'» 


• 

1: 


:v! 


J  Mr 


^4 


il. 


176 


ZC>r^    /fr    FIRST    SIGBT, 


but  the  weather  was  so  disagreeable,"  he  replied,  with  1 
pang  of  regrer  and  remorse  for  his  neglect. 

"  Yes,  so  it  was,"  said  Celeste,  sincerely ;  for,  having 
no  morbid  sell  love  to  be  wounded,  his  excuse  seemed 
the  most  natur;^!  thing  in  the  world. 

"And  how  is  my  old  friend,  Miss  Hagar?"  he  asked, 
drawing  her  arm  within  his,  and  leading  her  toward  the 
ronservatory.  xu^w  almost  deserted. 

*'  Oh,  quite  well      She  will  be  delighted  to  sec  you." 

"  May  t  go  an^i  see  her  lo-morrow,  sweet  Celeste  ?" 

"Certainly  you  may.  We  will  both  be  very  glad  to 
•«e  you,"  aiiswe'*;.d  Celeste,  delightedly. 

"She  isccr-j:iinly  a  paragon  of  simplicity.  No  woman 
of  the  world  would  say  that,"  thought  Louis,  as  he 
glanced  at  ht^r  eagei,  happy  face. 

An  CAclaniation  from  Ceieste  attracted  his  attention, 
He  looked  »*p.  Right  before  him  stood  Minnette,  with 
herglitterifXi^  black  eyes  fixed  upon  them  with  a  look  ao 
fierce,  so  tliimingiy  jealcus,  that  he  started  back. 

"  Why  Minnette,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Arc  you  ill  ?* 
lisked  Celeste,  in  alarm. 

She  would  have  turned  away  without  answering  ;  but 
the  dark  eye  of  Louis  was  upon  her,  and  she  replied, 
coldly  : 

"  I  am  perfectly  well.  Excuse  me ;  I  fear  I  have  in- 
terrupted a  pleasant  tete-a-tete." 

And,  with  one  fierce,  scorching  glance  at  Celeste,  she 
turned,  and  hurried  away. 

Celeste  shuddered  ;  something  in  the  dark,  passionate 
face  of  Minnette  frightened  her.  Her  companion  per- 
ceived it — well  he  understood  the  cause ;  and  with 
matchless  tact  he  drew  her  mind  from  the  subject  to  fix 
it  on  himself. 

During  the  evening  he  devoted  himself  assiduously 
u>  Celeste.    With  her  he  danced  ;  on  his  arm  ihe  l^tned 


«« 
^ 


,1      i' 


M  . 


THE    OLD,     OLD    STORY: 


■n 


in  the  promenade  ;  by  his  side  she  sat  at  table.  Stand- 
ing alone  and  nejrlected  by  herself,  Minnette  saw  it  all  •, 
and,  had  1  loks  power  to  kill,  those  flaming  glances  of 
fire  would  have  stricken  her  rival  dead. 

It  was  near  morniii!^  when  the  party  broke  up. 
Celeste — who  always  shared  Gipsy '«  room  when  at  the 
Hall — sought  her  couch,  and  soon  closed  her  weary  blue 
eyes  in  blissful  slumbers. 

That  night,  in  tiie  dreams  of  Louis,  the  dark,  resplen- 
dent face  of  Minn  'te  was  forgotten  for  a  white-robed 
vision  with  a  haunting  pair  of  blue  eyes.  And  Min- 
nette— in  the  calm  liglit  of  the  stars,  she  trod  up  srnd 
down  her  apartment  until  morning  broke  over  the  h'JJ* 
tops,  with  a  wild  anguish  at  her  heart  she  had  never  ^>>< 
fore  known. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 


"  THE     OLD,     OLD     STORY.' 


I  have  loved  thee,  thou  gentlest,  from  a  child. 
And  borne  thine  image  with  me  o'er  the  tea — 
Thy  soft  voice  in  my  soul  !  Speak  I  oh,  jet  liv*  f«r  mm  T 

— HncAm. 


GAY  party  gathered  around   the  breakfast 
table  at  Sunset  Hall  the  next  aiorning. 

There  was  Mrs.  Oranmore — fair,  fragile, 
but  still  pretty  ;  then  Mrs.  Gower,  over- 
shadowing the  rest  with  her  large  propor- 
tions until  they  all  shrank  into  skeletons  beside  her, 
with  the  exception  of  tiie  squire,  who  was  in  a  state  of 
roaring  good  humor.  There  was  Mrs.  Doctor  Nicholas 
Wiseman — our  own  little  Gipsy — as  usual,  «U  life,  kru* 


^     ";i 


,*■ 


t,i 


a7S 


**  TffE    OLD,     OLD    STORY.' 


!  ■> 


li| 


r 


n 


i 


Mh 


!M,i 


ii  r 


tie  and  gaycty,  keeping  up  a  constant  fire  of  repartee- 
laughing  and  chatting  unceasingly,  poor  little  elf '  ^t 
drown  thought. 

Tb-n  there  was  Louis — gay,  gallant  and  handsome-^ 
setting  iiimseif  and  everybody  else  at  case  by  his  stately 
courtesy  and  polished  manners.  By  his  side  sat  our 
favorite  Celeste,  fair  and  fresh,  and  bright  as  a  rosebud. 
smiling  and  blushing  at  the  compliments  showered  upon 
her.  And  last,  there  sat  Minnette,  pale,  and  cold,  and 
silent,  with  the  long,  black  lashes  falling  over  her  eyes 
to  hide  the  dusky  tire  that  filled  them. 

"  I  wish  you  would  stay  all  day  with  us,  Celeste," 
said  Mrs.  Oranmore.  *'  I  always  feel  twice  as  well  when 
I  can  look  upon  your  bright  face.  It  seems  to  me  you 
must  have  drank  at  the  fountain  of  beauty  and  youth." 

"  In  that  I  agree  with  you,  madam,"  said  Louii. 

Minnette  th  her  lip  till  the  blood  started. 

*' Oh  !  I  really  cannot  stay,  Mrs.  Oranmore,"  said 
Celeste,  blushing  vividly.  "  Miss  Ilagar  is  always  very 
lonely  during  my  absence  ;  and  besides " 

''  You  are  engaged  to  make  gowns  and  nightcaps  for 
all  the  old  women  of  the  parish  !  I  know  all  about  it," 
broke  in  Gipsy.  "  Formerly  /  used  to  be  prime  favorite 
in  St.  Mark's  ;  but  since  our  return  from  school  I  am 
thrown  aside  like  an  old  shoe,  to  make  room  for  your 
ladyship  I'll  leave  it  to  the  world  in  genfai  if  I 
wasn't  quoted  as  an  oracle  on  every  occasion.  There 
wasn't  a  baby  spanked,  nor  an  old  dress  turned  upside 
dow^n,  but  I  was  consulted  about  it.  Now,  just  look  at 
the  difference :  it's  Miss  Celeste  here,  and  Miss  Celeste 
there,  and  Miss  Celeste  everywhere  ;  while  I'm  nothing 
but  a  poor,  dethroned,  misfortunate  little  wretch  !  1 
won't  put  up  with  it — I  jist  won't.  I'll  leave  it  to  my 
daughter-in-law  over  there,  i^       isn't  unbearable." 


*     r*. 


f  ;  1' 


u 


THE    OLD,     OLD    STORY: 


»7f 


"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Wliat  do  you  say,  Mist  Wi8em«n  f 
iftid  the  squire,  laugliin^. 

*'  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  coldly  replied  Minnette. 

**  And  care  less,  I  suppose,"  said  Gipsy.  "Thnt's  jui4 
'Jic  way  !  Even  my  own  children  treat  me  with  disrc- 
ipect.  Well,  never  mind  ;  perhaps  the  tables  will  turn 
vet 

"  I  am  to  attend  you  home,  am  I  not,  Celeste  ?"  said 
Louis,  in  a  low  voice,  as  they  arose  from  the  table. 

"lam  sure  I  do  not  know.  I  suppose  you  may,  i< 
you  wish,"  she  replied,  ingenuously. 

"Oh,  go,  by  all  means,"  said  Gipsy,  who  overheard 
them.  "  Anything  to  keep  them  away  from  Minnette,' 
she  muttered  inwardly. 

Accordingly,  shortly  after  the  carriage  was  brought 
round.  Louis  handed  Celeste  in,  took  the  reins,  and 
drove  off,  unconscious  that  Minnette,  from  her  chambe/ 
window,  was  watching  them,  with  a  look  that  would  have 
appalled  him  had  he  seen  it. 

That  drive  home — to  what  an  unheard-of  length  was 
It  prolonged  !  Had  he  been  training  his  horses  for  a 
funeral,  Louis  could  not  have  driven  them  slower.  He 
had  so  many  things  to  tell  her  ;  wild  yet  beautiful  Ger- 
man legends — of  the  glorious  skies  of  glorious  Italy — oi 
the  vine-clad  hills  of  sunny  Spain — of  gay,  gorgeous 
Paris — and  of  the  happy  homes  of  "  merrie  England." 
And  Celeste,  lying  back  among  the  cushions,  with  half- 
closed  'n'-ss,  drank  in  his  low-toned,  eloquent  words- 
listened  to  the  dangerous  music  of  his  voice — with  i* 
feeling  unspeakably  delicious,  but  hitherto  unknown 
She  saw  not  the  burning  glances  of  his  dark  eyes,  at 
they  rested  on  her  fair  face,  but  yielded  herself  up  to  hi» 
magnetic  influence  without  attemptinf^  to  analyse  her 
feelings. 


k 


'!  r 


*  •( 


■,1-    ! 


'»  •   IK 


1    '  f] 

-> 


•3     • 


»  ■■■■ 
-I 


11 


I 


1^1 


4  \<  ■  i 


''t  r  rv, 
:.  •'  'I- 


fSo 


tjijR  old,   old  story: 


They  reached  Valley  Cottage  all  too  soon.  Looii 
handed  her  out,  and  entered  the  cottage  after  her. 

Miss  Ilairar  sat  in  her  old  seat,  as  though  she  had 
never  moved  from  il. 

"  Good-morninn:,  dear  Miss  Hagar,"  said  Celeste, 
kissinp(  Ivjr  so  alTeciioniitely  that  Louis  inwardly  wished 
he  couhl  becoinean  old  woman  forthwith.  "Sec — I  hari 
brought  a  stranger  liome  with  me." 

Louis  stood  smiling  before  her.  She  raised  her  sol* 
emn,  prophetic  gray  eyes  to  his  face,  with  along,  earnest 
gaze. 

"Louis  Oranmore  !"  she  exclaimed  —  "welcome 
home  !'» 

He  raised  the  withered  hand  she  extended  so  respect- 
fully to  his  lips  that  a  radiant  glance  of  gratitude  from 
the  blue  eyes  of  Celeste  rewarded  him. 

How  that  mornini^  slipped  away,  Louis  could  never 
tell;  but  seated,  talking  to  Miss  Hagar,  with  his  eyei 
fixed  on  the  rosy  fingers  of  Celeste  flying  with  redoubled 
velocity  to  make  up  for  what  was  lost,  he  "  took  no 
note  of  time,"  until  the  little  clock  on  the  mantel  struck 
two, 

*'  By  Jove  !  so  it  is  !"  exclaimed  Louis,  horrified  at  his 
prolonged  visit.     "  What  will  they  think  of  me  at  home  ?" 

''  Stay  and  take  dinner  with  us,"  said  Miss  Hagar 
hospitably. 

He  hesitated,  and  glanced  at  Celeste. 

'*  Pray  do,"  she  said,  lifting  her  sunshiny  face  witll 
an  enchanting  smile. 

Inwardly  rejoicing,  he  consented  ;  and  the  long  sum- 
mer afternoon  vanished  as  the  morning  had  done^^un- 
noticed. 

"  I  fear  your  cottage  is  enchanted.  Miss  Hagar,"  hs 
said,  laughingly,  as  he  at  last  arose  to  go ;  "I  find  it 
■ext  to  impossible  to  tear  myself   awaj  from  U.     Or 


"  THE    OLD,     OLD    STORY: 


•ll 


perhaps  there  is  f  ome  maufnet  concealed  that  keept  peo- 
ple here  against  their  will." 

Miss  Hagar  suiiled  good-humoredlj^  and  invited 
him  to  repeat  his  vi.dt--an  invitation,  it  i*"  unnecessary 
to  say,  the  youmif  gcniieinan  condescended  to  accept. 

Celeste  accain|)anied  hini  to  the  door.  As  they 
passed  out,   he  said  : 

"  On  this  very  spot  we  parted  years  ago.  Do  you  re* 
member  that  jKirting,  Celeste  ?" 

"  Yes,"  slie  said,  softly,  while  her  fair  face  grew  crim- 
son as  she  reincnibercd  how  wildly  she  had  wept  and 
clung  to  his  neck  tlien. 

He  read  what  was  passing  in  her  mind,  and  smiled 
slightly. 

**  Your  farewell  p;ift,  that  shining  ring  of  gold,  I  have 
kept  ever  since,  as  a  talisman  against  all  evil,"  he  said, 
with  a  slight  twinge  of  conscience  as  he  remembered 
where  it  was — at  the  bottom  of  one  of  his  trunks,  with 
some  scores  of  other  tresses,  severed  from  other  fair 
heads,  their  owners  long  since  forgotten. 

"I  am  glad  you  did  not  forget  me  during  your  ab- 
sen':,e,"  said  Celeste,  feeling  very  much  confused,  and 
nrt  knowing  very  well  what  she  was  expected  to  reply. 

"  Forget  ycju,  Celeste  !  Who  could  ever  do  so  after 
beholding  you  once  ?"  Then,  seeing  how  painfully  sbe 
was  embarrassed,  he  turned  gayly  away,  saying  : 
"  Good-bye.  fairest  Celeste  !  When  shall  we  m«et  agaiu  ?" 

"  I  know  not.     Next  Sunday,  at  church,  perhaps." 

"  As  if  1  could  exist  so  long  without  seeing  my  fair 
Stir  of  the  Valley !  May  I  not  come  to-morrow, 
C-leste  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  bring  Gipsy." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  Gipsy  I  She  will  most  probably 
be  *  over  the  hills  and  far  away'  long  before  I  open  my 
eyes  on  this  mortal  life  in  the  morning.    Therefore,  t(^ 


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morrow  v/ill  behold  me  cnce  more  by  the  side  of  my 
liege  lady." 

And  bowing  lis^htly,  he  sprang  into  the  saddle  and 
galloped  off,  followed  by  Celeste's  eyes  until  he  was  out 
cf  sight. 

The  gloaming  was  falling  when  he  reached  Sunsei 
Hall.  He  entered  the  parlor.  It  was  dark  and  un. 
tenanted,  save  by  a  slender,  black-robed  figure,  seated  by 
the  window,  as  motionless  as  a  statue.  It  was  Minnette 
— her  white  hands  clasped  tightly  together,  and  resting 
on  the  window-sill,  her  forehead  leaned  upon  them,  her 
long  black  hair  falling  in  disorder  over  her  shoulders. 

A  pang  of  remorse  shot  through  his  heart  at  the 
sight  of  that  despairing  figure.  He  went  over  and  laid 
his  hand  gently  on  her  arm. 

**  Minnette  !"  he  said,  softly. 

At  the  sound  of  that  loved  voice,  at  the  touch  of  that 
dear  hand,  she  started  up,  and,  flinging  back  her  long 
hair,  confronted  him,  with  such  a  white,  haggard  face, 
such  wild,  despairing  eyes,  that  involuntarily  he  st£^rted 
back. 

"Dear  Minnette,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  he  said,  gently 
taking  her  hind. 

She  wrenched  it  from  his  grasp,  with  a  bitter  cry.  and 
sinking  back  into  a  seat,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  Minnette,  are  you  ill  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he 
asked,  afraid  to  accept  the  answer  that  his  owu  heart 
gave. 

"  The  matter  !"  she  cried,  bitterly.  "  Oh,  you  may 
ask  !  You  do  not  know.  You  were  not  by  my  side  from 
morning  till  night,  whispering  your  wily  words  into  my 
ear,  until  this  fair,  this  angelic,  Celeste  came  !  Y0U  do 
not  know  what  it  is  to  have  led  a  cold,  loveless  life, 
until  some  one  came  and  won  all  the  wealth  of  loTethat 


<i    T 


THE    OLD,     OLD    STOMY.* 


««S 


of  my 

Idle  End 

[was  out 

Sunset 
nd  un. 
ated  by 

innette 
resting 

em,  her 

Iders. 
at   the 

md  laid 


of  that 
er  long 
rd  face, 

sti^rtcd 

gently 

ry.  and 
ith  her 

r?"  he 
heart 

1  may 
efrom 
to  my 
'0u  do 
s  life, 
ethai 


had  all  your  days  lain  dormant,  and  then  cast  it  bacK  at 
a  Vk  jirthless  gift  at  your  feet !  You  do  not  know  what  it 
js  to  discover  first  you  iiave  a  heart  by  its  ach'ng  !  Oh, 
TO  !     All  this  is  unknown  to  you.     *  111  !' " 

She  lauijhed  vvildlv. 

"  Minnette  !  Minnette  !  do  not  calk  so  passionately  ! 
la  the  name  of  lieaven,  what  have  I  done  ?" 

"  Done  !"  siie  repeated,  springing  fiercely  to  her  feet. 
"No  need  to  ask  what  you  have  done!  Was  not  this 
tieart  marble — harder  than  marble — ay,  or  granite — till 
you  came  ?  Did  you  not  read  it  as  you  would  an  open 
book  ?  Did  you  not  strike  the  rock  with  a  more  power- 
ful wand  than  that  of  Moses,  and  did  not  all  the  flood  of 
life  and  love  spring  forth  at  your  command  ?  You  never 
said  in  so  many  words  :  '  I  love  you.'  Oh,  no — you  took 
care  not  to  commit  yourself ;  but  could  I  not  read  it  in 
every  glance  of  your  eye.  Yes,  deny  it  if  you  will,  you 
did  love  me,  under  this  fair-faced  seraph — this  '  stray 
angel,'  as  I  heard  you  call  her — came,  and  then,  for  the 
first  new  face,  I  was  cast  aside  as  worthless.  I  was  too 
easy  a  conquest  for  this  modern  hero  ;  and  for  this  artful 
lUtle  hypocrite — for  her  pink  cheeks,  her  blue  eyes,  and 
yellow  hair — the  heart  that  loves  you  ten  thousand  times 
more  than  she  can  ever  do,  is  trampled  under  foot !  But 
\  tell  you  lo  beware,  Louis  Oranmore  ;  for  if  I  am  a 
'  t'gress,'  as  you  often  called  me  in  my  childhood,  I  can 
V;/ir  and  rend  in  pieces  all  those  who  will  cause  my 
miseiy." 

She  looked  like  some  beautiful  fiend,  in  her  fierce 
outburst  of  stormy  passion  ;  her  face  livid,  save  two 
dark  purple  spots  on  either  cheek;  her  eyes  flaming, 
blazing  ;  licr  lips,  white  ;  her  wild  black  hair  falling  like 
a  vail  of  darkness  ar:)urid  her  white  face. 

"  Minnette — dear  Minnette  l" — like  a  magic  spell  his 
low-toned  words  fell  on  her  maddened  spirit— *-"  y»u  ar« 


♦ 


•, 


1!-      / 

.      .    .Si 


:li 


lit;     "' 


•1  ) 


tS4 


TJIJE    OLD,     OLD    STORVr 


mistaken.  I  never  loved  you  as  ycu  fancy ;  !  admired 
your  beauty.  I  might  have  loved  you,  but  I  well  knew 
the  fierce,  jealous  nature  that  lay  smoldering  in  your 
heart,-  under  the  living  coals  of  your  passions.  Minaette^ 
the  woman  I  love  must  be  gentle  and  womanly^  for  that 
means  all  ;  the  fawn,  not  the  lioness,  suits  me.  Ex 
tremes  meet,  they  say  ;  and  my  own  nature  is  too  hot, 
passionate,  and  fiery,  ever  to  mate  with  si  spirit  like  to 
itself.  In  Celeste,  gentle,  tender,  and  dove-like — sit 
still,  Minnette,  you  tnusi  hear  me  out."  He  held  her 
down,  writhing  in  anguish,  by  the  force  of  his  stronger 
will.  "  In  her,  I  say,  I  find  all  that  I  would  ask  of  a 
woman.  Therefore  my  heart  was  drawn  toward  her. 
Had  I  found  the  same  qualities  in  you,  I  would  have 
loved  you,  instead  of  her.  And  now,  dear  Minnette,  for- 
give me  if  I  have  occasioned  you  pain  ;  but  for  you' 
own  peace  of  mind,  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  tell 
you  this." 

She  was  quivering,  writhing  in  intense  anguish, 
crouching  in  her  seat  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude  of 
utter  despair.  His  eyes  were  full  of  deep  pity  as  he 
gazed  upon  her. 

"  Minnette,  do  you  forgive  mc  ?"  he  said,  coming 
over  and  trying  to  raise  her  head. 

"  Oh,  leave  me — leave  me  !"  was  her  reply,  in  a  voice 
60  full  of  intense  suffering  that  he  started. 

"  Only  say  you  forgive  me." 

"  Never !  May  God  never  forgive  mc  if  I  do  !"  ih« 
cried,  with  such  appalling  fierceness  that  he  quailed  be- 
fore  her.  "  Leave  me,  I  tell  you  "  she  cried,  stamping 
her  foot,  "  leave  me  before  I  go  mad  !" 

He  quitted  the  room  :  and  Minnette  was  alone,  with 
her  own  uncontrolled  passions  for  oorapany.  The  ag«ny 
of  ages  seemed  to  be  concentrated  into  those  moments  3 


THE    OLD,    OLD    STORY: 


admired 
\y^  knew 
in  your 
inaettc^ 
^or  that 
e.     Ex. 
too  hot, 
like  to 
[like — sit 
eld  her 
tronger 
ask  of  a 
ird   her. 
lid  have 
ette,  for- 
or  you*" 
►uld  tell 

mguish, 
itude  of 
y  aa  he 

coming 

a  voice 


> !"  ihe 
iled  be* 
kmpiag 

5»  with 
ag«ny 
nents  3 


••S 


every  fiber  of  her  heart  seemed  tearing  from  its  place, 

and  lay  quivering  and  bleeding  in  her  bosom. 


Weeks  passed.  Day  after  day  found  Louis  at  Val- 
ley Cottage,  reading  and  talking,  or  walking  with  Ce- 
leste. A.nd  she — there  was  no  mistaking  that  quick 
flushing,  that  involuntary  smile,  that  sudden  brightening 
of  the  eye,  at  the  sound  of  his  footstep  or  the  tones  of 
his  voice.  Yes,  the  Star  of  the  Valley  was  wooed  and 
won.  And  all  this  time  Minnette  sat  in  her  own  room, 
alone,  wrapped  in  lier  own  gloomy  thoughts  as  in  a  man- 
tle— the  same  cold,  impassible  Minnette  as  ever.  Yet 
there  was  a  lurid  lightning,  a  blazing  fire,  at  times,  in 
her  eye,  that  might  have  startled  any  one  had  it  been 
seen. 

One  bright  nioonlight  night  in  July  Louis  and  Ce- 
leste were  wandering  slowly  along  the  rocky  path  lead- 
ing to  the  cottage.  Even  in  the  moonlight  could  be  seen 
the  bright  flush  that  overspread  her  fair  face,  as  she  lis- 
tened, with  drooping  head  and  downcast  eyes,  to  his  low,, 
love-toned  words. 

"  And  so  you  love  me,  my  sweet  Celeste,  better  than 
all  the  world  ?"  he  askea  softly. 

''  Oh,  yes  !"  was  the  answer,  almost  ioToluntarily 
breathed. 

*•  And  you  will  be  my  wife,  Celeste  ?'* 

"  Oh,  Louis !     Your  grandfather  will  never  consent/' 

"And  if  he  does  not,  what  matter?"  cried  Louis,  im- 
petuously. '*  I  am  my  own  master,  and  can  marry  whom 
I  please." 

"  Louis — Louis  !  do  not  talk  so.  I  w»ald  nerei 
marry  you  against  nis  will.' 

*  You  wAuld  not?" 


•» 


♦ 


■)  «■;';■ 


"I 


(l 

.  T 

1     't , 

t 

*'{ 

.   f 

;    /t . 

''.f . 

"rH 

.'' '" 

'/ 

r 

'    1> 

'       1 

-.* 

}^ 

•  i 

,1 

1 

" 

tf6 


*'THE    OLD,     OLD     ^TORYr 


'mk 


mim 


**No,  certainly  not.     It  would  )e  wrong,  you  know." 

"  Wrong  !  How  would  it  be  wrong,  Celeste  ?  I  am 
sure  my  mother  would  not  object ;  and  as  for  him,  what 
right  has  he  to  interfere  with  my  marriage  ?" 

"  Oh,  Louis  !  you  know  he  has  a  guardian's  right — a 
parent's  right — to  interfere.  Besides,"  she  added,  blush- 
ing, "we  are  both  too  young  to  be  married.  Time 
rnougli  these  seven  years." 

"  Seven  years  !"  echoed  Louis,  laughing  ;  "  why,  that 
vould  be  as  bad  as  Jacob  and — Rachel.  Wasn't  that 
/he  name  ?  Come,  my  dear  Celeste,  be  reasonable.  I 
j.annot  wait  seven  years,  thougl.  very  likely  you  could. 
During  all  those  long  years  of  absence  the  remembrance 
of  you  has  cheered  my  loneliest  hours.  I  looked  for- 
ward impatiently  to  the  time  when  I  might  return  and 
see  my  Star  of  the  Valley  again.  And  now  that  I 
have  come,  you  tell  me  to  wait  seven  years  !  Say,  Ce- 
leste, may  I  not  ask  my  grandfather — and  if  he  con- 
sents, will  you  not  be  mine  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — I'll  think  about  it,"  said  Celeste,  tim- 
idly. 

"  And  I  know  how  that  thinking  will  end.  Here  we 
are  at  the  cottage.  Good-night,  my  little  white  aove ! 
To-morrow  I  will  see  5'ou,  and  tell  you  his  decision." 

One  parting  embrace,  and  he  turned  away.  Celeste 
stood  watching  -lim  until  he  was  out  of  sight,  then 
turned  to  enter  the  cottage.  As  she  did  so,  an  iron  grasp 
?/as  laid  on  her  shoulder,  and  a  hoarse,  fierce  voice 
:ried  : 

"  Stop  !" 

Celeste  turned,  and  almost  shrieked  aloud,  as  she 
beheld  Minnette  standing  like  a  galyanixed  corpse  be* 
fore  her. 


THE    RIVALS, 


••f 


)u  know.** 

|e  ?    I  am 
him,  what 

Is  right— a 
fed,  blush- 
ed.    Time 

why,  that 
asn't  that 
nable.  I 
^ou  could, 
embrancc 
oked  for. 
eturn  and 
ow  that  I 
Say,  Ce- 
i  he  coD- 

:leste,  tim- 

Here  we 
ite  aove ! 
ision." 

Celeste 
ght,  then 
ron  grasp 
rce  voice 


i.  as  she 
trpse  be- 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


THE   RIVALS. 


"All  Other  passions  have  their  hour  of  thinkiif, 
And  hear  the  voice  of  reason.     This  alone 
Breaks  at  the  first  suspicion  into  frenzy, 
And  sweeps  the  soul  in  tempests." — ShakespkAUK. 

OR  a  moment  the   rivals   stood   silently  con- 
fronting each  other — Celeste  pale  and  trem- 
bling before  that    dark,   passionate   glance ; 
Minnette  white  and  rigid,  but  with  scorching, 
burning  eyes. 
"  Minnette,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Celeste,  at  last 
finding  voice.     *'  Good  heavens  !  you  look  as  though 
you  were  crazed." 

"Crazed  !"  hissed  Minnette  through  her  teeth.  "You 
consummate  little  hypocrite  !  Your  conduct,  no  doubt, 
should  make  me  very  cool  and  composed.  Girl,  I  say 
to  you,  beware !  Better  for  you  you  had  aever  been 
born,  than  live  to  cross  my  path  !" 

Her  voice  was  hoarse  with  concentrated  passion — her 
small  hands  clenched  until  the  nails  sank  into  the  quiv- 
ering flesh.  With  a  shudder,  Celeste  covered  her  face 
in  her  hands  to  shut  out  the  scathing  glance  of  those 
dark,  gleaming  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Minnette  ! — dear  Minnette  !— do  not  look  at  m« 
so.     Your  eyes  kill  me,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver. 

"  Would  to  Heaven  they  could  !"  fiercely  exclaimed 
Minnette. 

"Oh,  Minnette!  what  have  I  done?  If  I  have  in- 
jured you,  I  am  very  sorry.     Indeed,  indeed,  it  was  unin- 


s 


*'.'■ 


I, 


i^ 


l*t 


THE    RIVALS. 


■r 
i 


5'-- 


tentional.     I  would  sooner  die  than  hare  any  one  hati 

me  !"  said  Celeste,  clasping  tier  hands  imploringly. 

•*  Injured  nic  !"  almost  shrieked  Miiineltc,  clutching 
\ktr  arm  so  fiercely,  that  Celeste  cried  out  with  pain. 
'  Injured  me,  did  you  say  ?  Yes — the  greatest  injury 
>Jie  woman  can  ever  do  another  you  have  done  me. 
DVom  early  childhood  yon  have  crossed  my  path,  and, 
under  your  artfully  assumed  vail  of  simplicity,  won  the 
love  of  the  only  beiiiir  under  heaven  I  ever  cared  for — 
won  iiim  with  your  silly  smiles,  your  baby  face,  and 
cowardly  tears  ;  you,  a  poor,  nameless  beggar — a  de* 
pendent  on  the  bouniy  of  others,  /fa^e  yeu  I — yes,  from 
the  first  moment  I  beheld  you,  1  hated  you  with  an  in- 
tensity you  can  never  dream  of  until  you  feel  the  full 
weight  of  my  vengeance  ;  for  1  tell  you  I  will  be 
avenged  ;  yes,  I  would  peril  my  own  soul,  if  by  so  do- 
ing I  could  wreak  still  more  dire  revenge  on  your  head. 
I  tell  you,  you  be!;an  a  dangerous  game  when  you  trifled 
with  me.  I  am  no  sickly,  sentimental  fool,  to  break  ray 
heart  and  die — no  ;  I  shall  drag  down  with  me  all  who 
have  stood  in  my  way,  and  then  die,  if  need  be,  gloating 
over  the  agonies  I  have  made  them  suffer.  Beware,  I 
tell  you  ;  for  no  tigress,  robbed  of  her  young,  can  be 
fiercer  than  this  newly  awakened  heart !" 

She  hurled  Celeste  from  her,  as  she  ceased,  with  such 
"jiolence,  that  she  reeled  and  fell ;  and,  striking  her  head 
igainst  a  projecting  stone,  lay  for  some  minutes  stunned 
and  motionless.  A  dark  stream  of  blood  flowed  slowly 
from  the  wound  ;  and  Minnette  stood  gazing  upon  it 
with  a  fiendish  smile  on  her  beautiful  face.  Slowly,  and 
with  difficulty,  Celeste  arose — pressing  her  nandkerchief 
to  her  face  to  sianch  the  flowing  blood  ;  and,  lifting  her 
soft,  pitying  eyes  to  the  wild,  vindictive  face  above  her, 
Bhe  said  : 

''  Minnette,  I  forgive  you.     You  are  crazed,  and  know 


THE    RIVALS. 


389 


one  hati 

igly. 

clutching 
ith  pain, 
t  injury 
done  me. 
|path,  and, 
won  the 
red  for— 
face,  and 
ar — a  de- 
■yes,  from 
ith  an  in- 
j1  the  full 
I   will   be 
by  so  do- 
our  head, 
rou  trifled 
break  ray 
c  all  who 
7  S^loating 
Beware,  I 
Zy  can  be 

irith  such 
her  head 
s  stunned 
;d  slowly 
:  upon  it 
>wly,  and 
ikerchief 
ftfng  her 
'ove  her, 

ad  know 


not  what  yon  do.  But,  oh !  Minnette,  you  wrong  me. 
I  never  intentionally  injured  you — never,  as  heaven  is 
my  witness  !  I  have  tried  to  love  you  as  a  sister  always. 
Never,  never — by  word,  or  thouj^ht,  or  deed — have  I  wU- 
linii^ly  given  you  a  moment's  pain.  I  would  sooner  cut 
off  my  right  hand  than  offend  you.  Oh,  Minnette  !  can 
we  never  be  friends  ?" 

"Friends!"  repeated  Minnette,  with  a  wild  laugh  ; 
"yes,  when  the  serpent  dwells  with  the  dove  ;  when  the 
tiger  mates  with  the  lamb ;  when  two  jealous  woman 
love  each  other — then  we  will  be  friends.  Perjure  your- 
self not  before  me.  Though  an  angel  from  heaven  were 
ro  d.  scend  to  plead  for  you,  I  would  neither  forgive  you 
nor  believe  your  words." 

'*  What  have  I  done  to  make  you  hate  me  so  ?" 

"  You  brazen  hypocrite  !  do  you  dare  to  ask  me  what 
you  have  done  ?  He  did,  too  !  A  precious  pair  of  in- 
nocents, both  of  you  !"  said  Minnette,  with  her  bitter, 
jeering  laugh.  "  Little  need  to  tell  you  what  you  have 
done.  Did  you  not  win  the  love  of  Louis  Gran  more 
from  me  by  your  skillful  maciiinations  ?  He  loved  me 
before  he  saw  you.  Vou  knew  it ;  and  yet,  irom  the 
very  first  moment  vou  beheld  him,  you  set  to  work  to 
make  him  hate  me.  Do  not  deny  it,  you  barefaced,  art- 
ful impostor  !  Did  I  not  hear  you  both  to-night  ? — and 
was  not  the  demon  within  me  prompting  me  to  spring 
.\.rward  and  ^tab  you  both  to  the  heart  ?  But  my 
vengeance,  though  delayed,  shall  be  none  the  less  sure, 
and,  v^hen  the  time  comes,  woe  to  you  and  to  him  ;  for 
if  I  must  perish,  I  shall  not  perish  alone." 

During  this  fierce,  excited  speech — every  word  ot 
wnich  had  stabbed  her  to  the  heart — Celeste  had  stag- 
gered against  a  tree  ;  and,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  stood  like  one  suddenly  pierced  by  a  sword  ; 
w^Tf  word  burned  into  her  very  brain  like  fire,  as  sbt 

X9 


?     ^Il 


♦ 


;.«    i' 


.  4 


1^-  i*- 


■'!.■  .«■■ 


■n^ 


;  it 


'' 

•#• 


r///?   RrvAJ.s. 


•tood  like  otic  fainting—  (lyin«]j.  By  a  (freat  effort,  she 
crushed  back  the  Hood  of  her  emotions ;  and  when 
MinneUe  ceased,  she  lifted  up  her  face — pale  as  death; 
but  firm  and  earnest. 

"  Minnette  Wiseman,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  gentle 
dignirv,  so  unusual  to  her  that  the  dark,  passionate  girl 
gazed  on  her  in  astonishment,  "as  heaven  hears  me,  1 
am  guilty  of  none  of  these  things  of  which  you  accuse 
me.  If  Louis  O  ran  more  loved  you,  I  knew  it  not,  or  I 
would  not  have  listened  to  him  ;  if  he  won  your  heart, 
I  dreamed  not  of  it,  or  he  should  never  have  won  mine. 
I  thought  you  loved  no  one  but  yourself.  I  never- 
never  dreamed  you  cared  for  him.  For  all  the  misery  he 
has  caused  us  both,  may  heaven  forgive  him,  as  I  do  !  If 
he  loved  you  first,  you  have  a  prior  claim  to  his  heart,  i 
will  tell  him  so  to-morrow,  and  never  listen  to  him  more." 

She  strove  to  speak  calmly  to  the  end  ;  but  at  the 
last  her  voice  died  away  in  a  low  tone  of  utter  despair. 

"  Bah  !  your  acting  disgusts  me  !"  exclaimed  Min- 
nette, contemptuously.  "  Do  you  not  suppose  I  can  see 
through  this  vail  with  which  you  would  blind  my  eyes  ? 
You  will  tell  him  to-morrow,  forsooth  !  Yes,  you  will 
tell  him  I  came  here  to  abuse  you,  and  strike  you,  and 
load  you  with  vile  epithets,  and  with  what  saint-like 
patience  you  bore  them.  You  will  represent  yourself  as 
such  an  injured  innocent,  and  I  as  a  monster  of  cruelty ; 
you  will  tell  him,  when  I  smote  you  on  one  cheek,  how 
you  turned  the  other.  Faugh  !  do  not  iiake  me  despise 
you  as  well  as  hate  you." 

•*  You  cannot  despise  me,  Minnette  ;  you  know  you 
cannot,"  said  Celeste,  with  something  like  indignation 
in  her  gentle  voice,  as  her  truth-beaming  eye  met  un- 
dauntedly the  tiashing  orbs  before  her.  "  You  know  1 
have  spoken  the  truth      You  know  in  your  own  heart  1 

no  hypocrite.     Hate  me  if  you  will — I  cannot  pre^ 


s 


I 


THR    RTVALS, 


S91 


it     (.• 


eflfort,  she 

nd    when 

i  as  death; 

of  gentle 
onate  girl 
ears  me,  I 
on  accuse 
t  not,  or  I 
our  heart, 
won  mine. 
I  never  — 
misery  he 
s  I  do  !  If 
s  heart,    i 
im  more." 
but  at  the 
despair, 
med  Min- 
e  I  can  see 
I  my  eyes  ? 
,  you  will 
;  you,  and 
saint-like 
ourself  as 
f  cruelty ; 
heek,  how 
le  despise 

:now  you 
dignation 
e  met  un- 
1  know  1 
m  heart  1 
nnot  prcK 


vent  you  ;  but  you  shall  not  despise  me.  I  have  never 
intentionally  wronged  you,  and  I  never  will.  If  L<Miis 
Oranmorc  loves  you  as  you  say,  I  wish  you  both  all 
happiness.  I  shall  no  longer  stand  between  you  and  his 
heart." 

•*  Oh  !  wonderful  henjism  !"  cried  Minnette,  in  bitter 
mockery.  "  Vou  can  well  afford  to  say  you  give  him  up. 
when  you  know  lie  hjves  me  no  longer  ;  when  you  know 
you  have  surely  and  unalteiably  won  him  to  yourself 
Well  do  you  know  this  pretended  self-denial  of  yours 
will  elevate  you  a  thousand  times  higher  still  in  his  esti- 
mation, and  make  him  love  you  far  more  than  ever  be- 
fore. Oh  !  you  have  learned  your  trade  of  deception 
well.  Pity  ail  cannot  see  tlirough  it  as  I  do.  Think  not 
to  deceive  me  as  you  have  done  so  many  others  ;  I,  at 
least,  can  see  your  shallow,  selfish,  cold-blooded   heart." 

"  I  will  not  stay  to  listen  to  your  words,  Minnette  ; 
they  are  too  dreadful,  Some  day,  perhaps,  you  will  dis- 
cover how  you  have  wronged  me.  I  am  not  deceiving 
you  ;  he  must  give  me  up  if  what  you  say  be  true.  / 
will  even  go  away  if  you  wish  it — anywhere,  so  that  you 
may  be  satisfied.  I  will  write  and  tell  him,  and  nevei 
see  him  more,  if  that  will  satisfy  you."  Her  voice  fal- 
tered a  little,  but  she  went  on  ;  "I  will  do  anything — 
anything,  Minnette,  if  you  will  only  not  call  me  such 
terrible  things.  It  is  fearful — horrible,  to  be  hated  so 
without  cause  " 

Minnette  did  not  speak,  but  glared  upon  her  withhei 
burning,  flaming  eyes.  Two  dark  purple  spots — now 
fading,  now  glowing  vividly  out — burned  on  eithei 
cheek  ;  otherwise,  no  snow- wreath  was  ever  whiter  than 
her  face.  Her  teeth  were  set  hard  ;  her  hands  tightly 
clenched  ;  her  dark  brows  knit,  as  though  about  to 
spring  upon  the  speaker  and  rend  her  to  pieces.  She 
made  one  step  toward  her.    With  a  piercing  cry  of 


♦ 


■'  1 


t. 


■  (    1   *■   ■ 

,  I,"  ■M'*' 


■.■;;  '.i 

h  4'- 


\y:A 


t  I 


tga 


THE    RIVALS. 


:n4 


terror.  Celeste  spranjj  r»\vay,  darted  through  t!ie  p,!vrden 
gate,  flew  up  the  luiriow  p.atli,  burst  intc  the  rottage, 
closed  and  b(>lted  the  (U)or,  and  sank,  panting  and  almost 
fainting,  on  the  ground. 

*' Good  heavens !  child,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked 
Miss  Ilagar,  rising,  in  alarm. 

••  Oh  !  save  me — save  me  from  her  !"  was  all  Celeste 
could  utter. 

'*  Save  you  from  whom  ?  Who  are  you  speaking  of? 
Who  has  frightened  you  so  ?"  inquired  Miss  Hagar,  still 
more  astonished. 

Celeste  slowly  rose  from  the  ground,  without  speak- 
ing. Consciousness  was  beginning  to  return,  but  she 
was  still  stunned  and  bewildered. 

"  Merciful  Fattier  '"  cried  Miss  Hagar,  as  Celeste 
turned  toward  the  light,  "  what  has  happened  ?" 

And  truly  she  might  exclaim,  at  beholding  that  deadly 
pale  face — those  wild,  excited  eyes — the  disheveled  golden 
hair — the  blood-stained,  and  torn  and  disordered  dress. 

"  Nothing  !  oh,  nothing,  nothing  !"  said  Celeste,  pass- 
ing her  hand  slowly  over  her  eyes,  as  if  to  clear  away  a 
mist,  and  speaking  in  a  slow,  bewildered  tone. 

"  But,  child,  there  is  something  the  matter!"  insisted 
Miss  Hagar.  '*  Vou  look  as  though  you  were  crazed, 
and  your  face  is  stained  with  blood." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  had  forgotten,"  said  Celeste,  pushing  her 
hair  vacantly  off  her  wounded  forehead.  **It  Is  nothing 
at  all,  though.     I  do  not  feel  it." 

"  But  how  did  it  happen  ?" 

"  Oh  ! — why,  I  was  frightened,  and  ran,  and  feii," 
said  Celeste,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  said. 

"  What  was  it  frightened  you  ?"  pursued  Miss  Hagar, 
wondering  at  her  strange  manner. 

Celeste,  without  reply,  sank  upon  a  seat  and  pressed 
)Mr  hands  to  her  throbbing  temples  to  collect  her  scat- 


I 


TliJL    J^iVALS, 


393 


•le  pjarden 

^he  rottage, 

and  almost 

fer?"  askcU 
all  Celeste 

[caking  of? 
[agar,  still 

out  speak- 
n,   but  she 

as   Celeste 

?•• 

that  deadly 
eled  golden 
lered  dress. 
Jleste,  pass- 
lear  away  a 

!"  insisted 
ere  crazed, 

iishing  ber 
Is  nothing 

and  fell," 

iss  Hagar, 

id  pressed 
her  scat- 


\ 


tered  thoughts.  She  felt  sick  and  dizzy — anablc  to 
think  and  speak  coliereiiLly.  Her  head  ached  with  tiifl 
intensity  of  her  eiuuiitjua  ;  and  her  eyes  felt  dry  And 
burning.  Hjr  brow  wat.  hut  and  feverish  wilh  such  vio; 
lent  and  unu:ju:il  exciteiuent.  Her  only  idea  was  to  get 
away — to  be  alone — that  she  might  collect  her  wai'der 
ing  senses. 

"Miss  Hagir,"  she  said,  rising,  "I  cannot  tell  you 
what  has  iiappencd.  I  must  be  alone  to-night.  To- 
morr^AV,  perhaps,  I  will  tell  you  all," 

Any  time  you    please,    child,"    said    Miss    Hagar, 


i< 


Go  to  your  room    by    all    means.       Good- 


,■1 


kindly, 
night" 

"  Good-night !"  said  Celeste,  taking  her  lamp  and 
quitting  the  room. 

Slie  staggered  as  she  walked.  On  reaching  her  room 
she  set  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and  entwined  her  arms 
above  her  head,  which  dropped  heavily  upon  it.  Unac- 
customed to  excitement  of  any  kind,  she  felt  more  as  if 
heart  and  brain  were  on  fire.  Loving  Lmiis  with  the 
strong  affection  or  her  loving  heart,  the  sudden  disclos- 
ure and  jealous  fury  of  Minnetce  stunned  and  stupefied 
her  for  a  time.  So  she  lay  lor  nearly  an  hour,  unable  to 
think  or  realize  whai  had  Jiappened — only  conscious  of 
a  dull,  dreary  pain  at  her  heart.  Then  the  mist  slowly 
cleared  away  from  her  mental  vision — the  fierce  wordti  of 
Minnette  danced  in  red,  lurid  letters  before  her  eyes.  She 
started  to  her  feet,  and  paced  her  chamber  wildly. 

"Oh  !  why  am  1  doomed  to  make  others  miserable  ?" 
she  ciied,  wringing  her  hands.  "Oh,  Louis,  Louis! 
why  have  you  deceived  me  thus  ?  What  have  I  done 
that  I  should  suffer  such  misery?  But  't  is  wrong  to 
complain.  I  must  n^t,  will  not  murmur.  I  will  not 
reproach  him  for  what  he  has  done,  but  try  to  forgot 
him.     May  he  be  as  happy  with  Minnette  as  I    vould 


Iv* 


I 


»f4 


THE    RIFALS, 


have  siri>en  to  render  him  !  To -morrow  I  vii*  fccc  nini 
and  return  all  the  gifts  ckerished  for  his  sake  ;  to« 
morrow  I  will  bid  liim  a  last  adieu  ;  to  morrow 
■-but.  oh!  1  cannoi — I  cannot!"  she  exclaimed,  pas- 
sionately. *'  I  cannot  see  him  and  bid  him  go.  Oh, 
Father  of  the  fatiierless  !  aid  me  in  my  anguish  !" 

She  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  and  a  wild,  ear- 
"RCSt  prayer  broke  from  her  tortured  lips. 

By  degrees  she  grew  calm  ;  her  wild  excitement  died 
away  ;  the  scorching  he;a  left  her  brain,  and  blessed 
tears  came  to  her  aid.  Long  and  bitterly  she  wept  ;  long 
and  earnestly  she  prayed — no  longer  as  one  without 
hope,  but  trustful  and  resigned,  bending  her  meek  head 
to  the  blow  of  the  chastening  rod. 

She  arose  from  her  knees,  pale,  but  calm  and  re- 
signed. 

"  I  will  not  see  him,"  she  murmured  ''Better  for  us 
both  I  should  never  see  him  again  !  I  will  write — I  will 
tell  him  all — and  then  all  that  is  past  must  be  forgotten. 
In  the  creature  I  was  forgetting  the  Creator ;  for  the 
;vorship  of  God  I  was  substituting  the  worship  of  man  ; 
and  my  Heavenly  Fatlier,  tempering  justice  with  mercy, 
has  lifted  me  from  the  gulf  into  which  I  was  falling,  and 
oet  me  in  the  narrow  way  once  more.  Henceforth,  no 
earthly  idol  shall  fill  my  heart  ;  to  Him  alone  shall  it  be 
consecrated ;  and  I  will  live  on  in  the  hope  that  there  is 
yet  *  balm  in  Gilead  '  for  me." 

It  was  very  easy  to  speak  thus,  in  the  sudden  reaction 
from  despair  to  joy — very  easy  to  talk  in  this  way  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  after  her  heart  had  been  re- 
lieved by  tears.  She  thought  not  of  the  weary  days  and 
nights  in  the  future,  that  would  seem  to  have  no  end, 
when  her  very  soul  would  cry  out  in  wild  despair  for 
that  "  earthly  idol  "  again. 

And   full    of   her  resolution,  with   cheeks  and  eyei 


THE    RIVALS, 


395 


^li*  *ec  nias 
IS   sake;    to 

to  morrow 
paimed,  pas- 
1"!  go.     Oh 
lish  !" 

a  wild,  ear. 

Jtement  died 
(and  blessed 

^ept ; long 
>ne   without 

meek  head 

ilm  and  re- 
setter for  us 
mte— I  will 
e  forgotten, 
tor ;  for  the 
^ip  of  man  ; 
with  mercy, 
falling,  and 
'ceforth,  no 
5  shall  it  be 
hat  there  is 

•n  reaction 
way  in  the 
id  been  re- 
)'  days  and 
ve  no  end, 
lespair  for 

and  erei 


glowing  with  the  light  of  inspiration,  she  sat  down  at 
the  table,  and,  drawing  pen  and  paper  before  her,  began 
to  write. 

A  long,  earnest,  eloquent  letter  it  was.  She  re 
signed  him  forever,  bidding  him  be  happy -with  Min 
nette,  and  forget  and  forgive  her,  and  breathing  the  very 
soul  of  sisterly  love  and  forgiveness.  Page  after  page 
was  filled,  while  her  cheek  flushed  deeper,  and  her  eyes 
grew  brighter,  and  her  pen  flew  on  as  if  inspired. 

There,  in  the  holy  seclusion  of  her  chamber,  in  the 
solemn  stillness  of  night,  she  made  the  total  renuncia- 
tion of  him  she  loved  best  on  earth,  scarcely  feeling  now 
ihe  had  lost  him,  in  the  lofty  exaltation  oi  her  feelings. 

It  was  finished  at  last.  The  pen  dropped  from  her 
hand,  and  she  arose  to  seek  for  the  few  gifts  he  had  ever 
given  her.  A  little  golden  locket,  containing  his  like- 
ness and  a  lock  of  his  hair  ;  her  betrothal-ring ;  and  the 
oft-mentioned  gold  cross.     That  was  all. 

She  opened  the  likeness,  and  through  all  her  hero- 
ism a  wild,  sharp  thrill  of  anguish  pierced  her  heart,  as 
she  gazed  on  tiiose  calm,  beautiful  features.  The  sable 
ring  of  hair  twined  itself  round  her  fingers  as  though 
unwilling  to  leave  her  ;  but  resolutely  she  replaced  it, 
and  drew  off  the  plain  gold  circlet  of  their  betrothal,  and 
laid  them  side  by  side.  Then  her  cross — it  had  cever 
left  her  neck  since  the  night  he  had  placed  it  there.  All 
the  old  tide  of  love  swelled  back  to  her  heart  as  she 
gazed  upon  it.  It  seemed  like  rending  her  very  heart 
strings  to  take  it  oil. 

"  I  cannot  '  I  cannot !"  was  her  anguished  cry  as  her 
arm  dropped  powerless  on  the  table. 

"  You  must !  you  must  !  it  is  your  duty  !"  cried  the 
stern  voice  of  conscience;  and,  with  trembling  fingers 
and  blanched  lips,  the  precious  token  was  removed  and 
laid  beside  the  others. 


r 


(f^* 


I 


,X- 

fi 

■  U,- 

^   : 

t  , 

i  * 

"'  l''' 

t' 

j  > 

J 

\ 

;^i• 

) 

'?* 

y' 

* 

,,  r 

r 

*  ■..'■ 

'^'' 


:U-'  'Ml 


S96 


GIPSY    HUNTS    NEW     GAME. 


Then,  sealing  theaii  up,  with  one  last,  agonizing  iouc. 
Buch  as  we  might  bestow  on  the  face  of  a  dear  friend 
abjut  to  be  cousigne.i  to  the  grave,  she  sealed  and  di- 
rected the  packet,  and  then  tnj  .w  herself  on  her  bed 
and  pressed  her  hands  over  her  eyes  to  hide  out  the 
iace  of  her  dead. 

Biit  in  spite  of  sorrow,  sleep  will  visit  the  afflicted, 
and  a  bright  morning  sunbeam  fell  like  a  halo  on  her 
pale  fare,  ca.Im  in  sleep,  and  on  the  golden  eyelashes, 
still  wet  with  undried  tear-drops. 

That  same  broad  July  sunbeam  fell  on  Minnette 
lying  prone  on  her  face  in  the  damp  pine  woods,  her 
long,  black  hair  and  dark  garments  dropping  with  tiie 
soaking  dew.  The  dark,  lonely  woods  had  been  her 
couch  the  livelong  night. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


GIPSY    HUNTS   NEW   OAICK. 

"  And  by  the  watch-fire's  gleaming  lifkt. 
Close  by  his  side  was  seen 
A  huntress  maid  in  beauty  bright 
With  airy  robes  of  green." — ScOTT. 


^T  was    early  afternoon   of   that    same   day   on 
P     which  the  events  related  in  the  last  chapter 


occurred.  Squire  Erliston  in  after-dinner 
mood,  sat  in  his  arm-chair  ,  Louis  lay  idly 
on  a  lounge  at  a  little  distance,  and  Gipsy  sat 
by  the  window,  vawningly  turning  over  a  volume  of 
prints.  Mrs.  Oranmore  swathed  in  shawls,  lounged  on 
her  sofa,  her  prayerbook  in  her  band,  taking  a  successioo 
•f  short  naps. 


GIPSY    HUNTS     NEW     GAME, 


29r 


uzingiooc 
Idear  friend 
led  and  di- 

>n  her  bed 
|de  out  the 

le  afflicted, 
lalo  on  hei 
eyelashes, 

Minnette 
woods,  her 
g  with  the 
been   her 


e  ^zj  on 
St  chapter 
ter-dinner 
f  lay  idly 
Gipsy  sat 
olume  of 
unged  on 
uccessioo 


9 


It  wa3  the  squire's  custom  to  goto  si sep  after  dinner  ^ 
bit  now,  in  his  evident  excitement,  he  seemed  quite  to 
forget  it  altogether. 

'*  Yes,  sir,"  he  was  saying  to  Louis,  "  the  scoundrel 
actually  entered  the  sheriff's  house  through  the  window, 
and  carried  off  more  than  a  hundred  dollars,  right  under 
their  very  noses.  It's  monstrous  ! — it's  outrageous  ! 
He  deserves  to  be  drawn  and  quartered  for  his  villainy  I 
And  he  will  be,  too,  if  he's  takea.  The  country  '11  soon 
be  overrun  with  just  such  rascals,  if  the  scoundrel  isn't 
made  an  example  of." 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  papa?"  inquired  Lizzie, 
suddenly  walking  up. 

"  Of  one  of  Drummond's  negroes — a  perfect  ruffian  ; 
Big  Tom,  they  call  him.  He's  fled  to  the  woods,  and 
only  makes  his  appearance  at  night.  He  stabbed  young 
Drummond  hirnseli  ;  and  since  then,  he'i  committed  all 
sorts  of  depredations.  Simms,  the  sheriff,  came  down 
yesterday  with  constables  to  arrest  them  ;  and  during  the 
night,  the  scoundrel  actually  had  the  audacity  to  enter 
the  sheriff's  window,  and  decamped  with  a  hundred  dol- 
lars before  they  could  take  him.  He  met  one  of  the  con- 
stables in  the  yard  as  he  was  going  Dut.  The  constable 
cried  *  murder,'  and  seized  him  ;  but  Big  Tom — who  is  a 
regular  giant — just  lifted  him  up  and  hurled  him  over 
the  wall,  where  he  fell  upon  a  heap  of  stones,  breakir;(f 
his  collar-bone,  two  of  his  legs,  'and  the  rest  of  his  ribs,' 
as  Solomon  says.  The  constable's  not  expected  to  i.ve  ; 
and  Big  Tom  got  off  to  his  den  in  safety  with  his  booty." 

"  Why  do  they  not  scour  the  woods  in  a  body  ?"  in 
quired  Louis. 

"  So  they  did  ;  but — bless  your  soul  \ — it's  like  look- 
ing tor  a  needle  in  a  hay-stack— couldn't  find  him  'xrxy- 
where." 

*'  Oh  !  it  was  capital  fun  !"  taid  Gipiy,  laus^hing,  "  i^ 


I 

if 

1 

in 

^ 

r--;. 

f 

'■i 

! 

•  ■ '  '< 


')  I 


i' 


'Mr.   .  , 

Ml'* ' 


iyS 


7/PSy    HUNTS    NE>V    GAME. 


-•  ''S: 


■^i 


% 


reminded  me  of  '  hide-aiid-go-seek'  more  than  AJ/thing 
else.  Once  or  twice  they  caught  sight  of  mc  thiougii  the 
bashes,  and  taking  me  for  poor  Tom,  came  pretty  near 
firing  on  me.  Simms  made  them  stop,  and  called  to  me 
to  surrender  to  the  law,  or  I'd  repent  it.  Accordingly,  1 
xurrendered,  and  rode  out,  and — my  goodness  ! — if  they 
didn't  look  blue  when  they  saw  me !  I  burst  right  out 
laughing  in  their  face,  and  made  Simms  so  mad  that  I 
guess  he  wished  he  had  let  his  men  shoot  me.  Oh  !  didn't 
I  have  a  jolly  time,  though!  I  took  them,  by  various 
artifices,  miles  out  of  their  way — generally  leaving  then: 
half-swamped  in  a  bog,  or  in  some  pathless  part  of  the 
woods — until  Simms  lost  all  patience,  and  swore  till  he 
was  black  in  the  face,  and  rode  home  in  a  towering  pas- 
sion, all  covered  with  mud,  and  his  fine  city  clothes  torn 
to  tatters.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  I  guess  I  enjoyed  it,  if  they 
didn't." 

"  As  mischievous  as  ever !"  exclaimed  the  squire 
"  Pretty  way,  that,  to  treat  the  officers  of  the  law  in  the 
discharge  of  their  duty  !  How  will  you  like  it,  if  that 
black  demon  comes  here  some  night,  and  murders  us  ail 
in  our  beds  ?" 

Lizzie  uttered  a  stified  shriek  at  the  idea. 

"  I'm  sure  I'll  be  glad  of  it,  if  he  only  murders 
Spider  first,  and  so  save  me  the  trouble,"  said  Gipsy. 

"  You're  an  affectionate  wife,  *pon  my  word,"  mut- 
tered Louis. 

"Yes;  but  it's  just  like  the  diabolical  young  *mp," 
growled  the  squire. 

"Thank  you — you're  complimentary,"  muttered 
Gipsy. 

"  Mind  you/'  continued  the  squire,  "  while  Big 
Tom's  at  liberty  you  must  leave  off  your  rides  through 
the  woods  and  over  the  hills — because  be  might  be  tha 
death  of  you  at  acv  moment." 


GIPSY    HUNTS    NE^iV     GAME. 


399 


Jough  the 
retty  .lear 
lied  to  me 
|ordingIy,l 
.'—if  tlit7 
right  out 
ad  that  J 
h !  didn't 
J  various 
ving  their 
>art  of  the 
ore  till  he 
ering  pus- 
othes  torn 
it,  if  they 

he  squire 
law  in  the 
5  it,  if  that 
ders  us  ail 


'  murders 
j^ipsy. 
rd,"  mut- 
ing -mp," 

muttered 

hile    Big 

through 

t  be  th« 


"  More  likely  I'd  be  the  death  of  him. 
born  tc  be  killed  by  a  ruffian." 

"No  ;  for  if  the  gallows  iiad  its  dues — 


I  nere    was 


•*  You  wouldn't  be  here  to-day,"  interrupted  Gipsy. 

"  Come — don't  interrupt  me,  young  woman.     1  pos; 
tively  forbid  you  or  any  one  in  this  place   ndicg  out 
while  Big  Tom's  roaming  about." 

"  That's  right,  Guardy — show  your  authority.  Noth- 
ing like  keeping  it  up,  you  know.  And  now,  as  I'm  ofl 
to  give  Mignonne  an  airing,  I'll  think  of  your  com- 
mands by  the  way." 

And  the  disobedient  elf  arose  to  leave  the  room. 

"But,   my   dear,    tantalizing  little   coz,   it    really   is 
dangerous,"    interrupted   Louis.     "  If  you  were  to  en 
counter  this  gigantic  negro,  alone,  it  would  be  rather  a 
serious  affair,  I'm  afraid." 

"Bother  !"  exclaimed  the  polite  and  courteous  Mrs. 
vViseman.  "  Do  you  s'puse  I'm  afraid — Gipsy  Gower 
afraid  !  Whew  !  I  like  that  !  Make  your  mind  easy, 
my  dear  Louis.  I  could  face  a  regiment  on  Mignonne's 
back  without  flinching." 

And  Gipsy  darted  off  to  don  her  riding-habit,  singing 
as  she  went : 

"  Some  love  to  roam 

O'er  the  dark  sea  foam, 
Where  the  shrill  winds  whistle  fnw  ; 

But  a  chosen  band 

In  (he  mountain  land. 
And  a  life  in  the  woods  tor  me.** 

Ten  minutes  afterward  they  saw  her  ride  out  ot  th« 
court-yard  at  her  usual  furious  rate,  ana  iash  away  over 
the  hills,  where  she  was  speedily  out  of  sight. 

Gipsy  must  have  had  some  of  the  Arab  in  her  na- 
ture ;  for  she  spent  almost  her  whole  life  on  horse-back. 
She   heeded   not  the  flight  ot  time,  as    she    ihun acred 


pi 


I 


■il'. 


, 


r    '   > 


!•!    f 


IM 


% 


JOC 


GIPSY    J/C/A'TS    yiLW    GAME, 


alc.ig,  riding  in  the  most  hazardous  places — tonistiine* 
narrowly  escaping  being  daslied  to  pieces  over  preci- 
pices— sometimes  leaping  yawning  chasms  t'nat  would 
make  many  a  stout  hunter's  head  giddy.  The  excite- 
ment was  a  part — a  necessity — of  her  nature.  The  almost 
stagnant  lilc  in  the  village  would  have  driven  the  hot- 
headed, impetuous  girl  wild,  but  for  the  mad  excitement 
of  the  chase.  Brave  as  a  young  lioness — bold  and  free 
as  the  eagle  of  her  native  mountains — she  scorned  fear, 
and  sought  danger  as  others  do  safety.  She  knew  it  was 
putting  lier  head  into  the  lion's  mouth  to  venture  alone 
ir.to  this  wild,  unfrequented  region,  within  arm's  length 
of  a  desperate  villain,  hunted  down  like  a  furious  beast ; 
yet  the  idea  uf  not  venturing  here  never  once  entered 
her  mad  little  head. 

It  was  growing  dark  before  Gipsy  began  to  think  of 
turning  her  steps  homeward.  Reluctantly  she  turned 
her  horse's  head,  and  set  out  fur  Mount  Sunset — half  re- 
gretting she  had  met  with  no  adventure  virorth  relating 
on  her  return. 

As  she  rapidly  galloped  along  she  discovered  she  had 
ridden  much  farther  than  she  had  intended,  and  that  it 
would  be  late  ere  bhe  reached  the  hall.  The  dim  star- 
light alone  guided  her  path  ;  for  the  moon  had  not  yet 
risen.  But  Miguonne  was  so  well  accustomea  to  the 
toixd  that  he  could  have  found  his  way  in  the  dark  ;  and 
G^ipsy  lode  on  gayly,  humming  to  herself  a  merry  hunt- 
ing-chorus. 

Suddenly  a  gleam  of  light  from  between  the  trees 
flashed  across  their  path.  Mignonne,  like  his  mistress, 
bcK.g  only  a  half-tamed  thing  at  best,  reared  suddenly 
upright,  and  would  have  dashed  off  at  headlong  speed, 
bad  not  Gipty  Iield  the  reins  with  a  grasp  of  iron 
Her  strength  was  wonderful  for  a  creature  so  small  snd 
■iighi  '  but  her  vigorous  exercise  had  given  her  thcwi 


think  of 
le  turned 
:■— half  re- 

relating 

2d  she  had 
nd  that  it 
dim  star- 
d  not  yet 
lea  to  the 
ark  ;  and 
rry  hunt- 

the  trees 
mistress, 
suddenly 
ig  speed, 
of  iron 
mall  sad 
er  thewi 


GIPSY    HUNTS    ITEW    GAME, 


3»i 


and  n  iiscles  of  steel.  Mi^nonne  fe't  he  was  in  the  /iund 
of  a  master-spirit,  and  after  a  few  fierce  bounds  &nd 
plunges,  stood  still  and  surrendered. 

Rapidly  alighting,  Gipsy  bound  her  horse  securely, 
and  then  stole  noiselessly  through  the  trees.  The  cause 
of  the  light  was  soon  discovered  ;  and  Gipsy  t>eheui  a 
sight  that,  daring  and  fearless  as  she  was,  ior  a  moment 
froze  the  very  b!oo:!  in  her  veins. 

A  small  semicircle  was  before  her,  in  the  center  of 
which  the  remains  of  a  fire  still  glowed,  casting  a  hot, 
reddish  glare  around.  By  its  lurid  light  the  huge  figure 
of  a  gigantic  negro,  whose  hideous  face  was  now  fright- 
fully convulsed  with  rage.  On  her  knees  at  his  feet  was 
a  woman,  whom  he  grasped  with  one  hatid  by  the  throat, 
and  with  the  ether  brandished  over  her  head  a  long, 
murderous  knife.  The  sight  for  a  moment  left  Gipsy's 
eyes,  and  her  very  heart  ceased  beating.  Then,  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning,  she  drew  a  pistol,  aimed  and 
fired. 

One  second  more  and  she  would  have  been  too  late. 
With  the  shriek  of  a  madman  the  huge  negro  leaped  into 
the  air,  and  bounded  to  where  she  stood.  She  turned  to 
fly,  but  ere  she  had  advanced  a  yard  she  was  in  the  furi- 
ous grasp  of  the  wounded  monster.  His  red  eyes  were 
like  balls  of  fire,  he  foamed,  he  roared  with  rage  and 
pain,  as  with  one  huge  hand  he  raised  the  slight  form  of 
Gipsy  to  dash  out  her  brains. 

In  that  moment  of  deadly  peril  the  brave  girl  was  as 
cool  and  self-possessed  as  though  she  were  seated  in 
safety  in  her  guardian's  parlor.  A  gleaming  knife  was 
stuck  in  his  belt.  Quick  as  thought  she  drew  it  out, 
and,  concentrating  all  her  strength,  she  plunged  it  in 
his  breast. 

The  hot  blood  spurced  in  a  gush  \x\  in  her  face. 
Without  a  cry  the  ruffian  reeled,  his  hand  relaxed,  and 


f  > 


>Lii 


I 


■t  ^ 

1 

-   ■ 

\,..  .  t 


joa 


GTPSY    FT  U NTS    I^RIV    GAME. 


t  '■ 


X 


t 


Gipsy  spranq:  from  liis  grasp  jtist  as  \«  fell  heaTily  tt 
the  grou  id. 

Gipsy  staggered  against  a  tree,  with  a  deadly  incliua* 
tion  to  swoon  coming  over  her.  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  to  hide  the  ghastly  form  of  the  \\\\%t 
negro,  lying  wtiltcring  in  his  own  blood  before  her. 
She  had  taken  a  life  ;  and  though  it  was  done  in  self-de- 
fense, and  to  save  the  life  of  another,  it  lay  on  her 
heart  like  lead. 

The  thought  of  that  other  at  length  aroused  her  to 
action.  Darting  through  the  trees  she  approached  the 
fire.  The  woman  lay  on  the  ground,  senseless,  and  haH 
strangled.  The  firelight,  as  it  fell  upon  her,  showed  the 
face  and  form  of  an  old  woman,  upward  of  fifty,  poorly 
clad,  and  garments  half  torn  off  in  the  scufHe. 

The  sight  restored  Gipsy  to  her  wonted  composure. 
Kneeling  down,  she  began  chafing  the  old  woman's 
hands  and  temples  with  an  energy  that  soon  restored 
her  to  consciousness.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  glared 
for  a  moment  wildly  around;  then,  as  consciousness  re- 
turned, she  uttered  shriek  upon  shriek,  making  the  fores*, 
resound. 

"Stop  your  screaming,"  said  Gipsy,  shaking  her  in 
her  excitement.  "  You're  safe  enough  now.  Stop,  will 
you.     I  tell  you  you're  safe." 

"Safe!"  repeated  the  woman,  wildly.  "Oh,  tha 
drefful  nigger " 

"  He  won't  hurt  you  any  more  Stop  your  noise 
and  get  up,  and  come  with  me  '"  said  Gipsy,  impa> 
ftiently. 

"Oh  !  Lor'  a  masseur  !  I  can't  git  up.  I'm  all  out  o' 
I'lDt.     I'm  dead  entirely  I"  groaned  the  woman. 

"Then  I  shall  leave  you  here,"  said  Gipsy,  rising. 

"Oh,  don't  leave  me  !•— don'^  for  God'iaake!    Vt 


GIPSY    HUNTS    N^W    GAME. 


30J 


indiua* 
[her  fac€ 
[he  hu;r<. 

►re  her. 

self-de- 

on  her 

her  to 

hed  tlie 

tnd  h.'il^ 

wed  the 

poorly 

posure. 
V'oman's 
restored 
'  glared 
5ness  re- 
e  fores! 

r  her  in 
>p,  will 

h,   tha 

noise 
impa* 

out  o' 


die  o*  fear  !"   screamed  the    woman,   grasping  (^rpsy's 
dress. 

"  Then,  you  stupid  old  thing,  get  up  and  come  along/' 
cried  Gipsy,  losing  all  patience,  as  she  seized  her  with 
DC  gentle  hand,  and  pulled  her  vj  her  feet. 

"  Where  '11 1  go  ?"  said  the  poor  old  creature,  trem- 
bling with  mortal  terror,  evidently  as  much  afraid  of  ♦he 
fierce  little  Amazon  before  her,  as  of  the  huge  negro 

"  This  way,"  said  Gipsy,  pulling  her  along  to  where 
stood  her  horse.  "Now,  get  up  there,  and  put  your 
arms  around  my  waist,  and  hold  on  for  your  life." 

"Oh  !  dear  me  !     I  nevr    rid  a  horseback  in  my  life, 
and   I'll  fall  off — I  know  I  will !"  said  the  old  woman 
wringing  her  hands  in  fresh  distress. 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it  ;  you'll  have  to  make  the  at- 
tempt, or  stay  here  till  I  reach  St.  Mark's,  and  rouse  up 
the  people.     Which  will  you  do  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  dassent  stay.  I'll  go  'long  with  you,  some- 
how." 

"  Very  well.  Up  with  you  then,"  said  Gipsy,  almost 
lifting  her  into  the  saddle.  "  Now,  I'l^  get  on  before 
you,  and  mind,  if  you  don't  hold  on  well,  you'll  never 
reach  the  village  alive." 

With  the  clutch  of  mortal  fear,  the  old  lady  grasped 
Gipsy  round  the  waist,  and  held  on  for  dear  life,  until 
Mount  Sunset  was  gained,  when,  more  dead  than  alive, 
ihe  was  assisted  to  alight,  and  consigned  to  the  care  of 
the  servants. 

Louis,  who  had  just  returned  from  his  intervie^r  with 
Celeste,  was  in  the  parlor  with  the  squire,  meditating 
how  he  should  make  his  proposal,  when  Gipsy,  pale, 
wild,  and  disordered,  her  hair  disheveled,  and  her  gar- 
ments dyed  with  blood,  burst  in  upon  them,  electrifying 
them  with  amazement. 

Great  was  their  consternation  as  they  listened  to  th* 


*  t 


; 


f 


II 


304 


GIPSY    HUNTS    NEW    GAME, 


rapidly-told  tale.  There  was  no  timeleft  toconL'rrit  »ln?* 
her  on  her  narrow  escape,  for  she  impetuously  joni- 
manded  Louis  to  mount  immediately  and  take  three  or 
four  of  the  servants  to  bring  away  tlie  body. 

WitI)  a  rapidity  almost  as  great  as  her  own,  her  coun- 
sels were  obeyed,  and  Gipsy,  with  Louis  beside  lier, 
started  back  to  the  scene  of  the  ratastrophe,  followed  by 
four  of  the  servants. 

They  reached  the  spot  at  last,  and  Gipsy  drew  back 
in  dismay  as  she  discovered  the  body  was  gone. 

**  Who  can  have  carried  it  off  ?"  she  exclaimed 
aghast. 

"I  rather  think  he  has  carried  himself  off,"  said 
Louis,  wl  J  had  been  attentively  examining  the  ground, 

"Oh,  impossible!  He  was  dead,  I  tell  you — just  as 
dead  as  ever  he  could  be,"  said  Gipsy. 

"  Well,  dead  or  not,  he  has  made  his  escape,"  said 
Louis.  "  See,  the  grass  is  dyed  with  blood  all  along, 
showing  the  way  he  has  gone.  Come,  the  trail  io  plain 
enough,  let  us  follow  it." 

All  dismounted  and  followed  Louis.  Not  i^r  had 
they  to  go,  for  lying  by  the  fire  was  the  burly  form  ol 
the  negro.  He  had  evidently,  with  much  difriculty 
dragged  himself  thus  far,  and  then  sank  down  exh.\usted. 

He  rolled  his  glaring  eyes  fiercely  on  the  faces  bend- 
ing over  him,  and  gnashed  his  teeth  in  impotent  rage  as 
he  saw  Gipsy. 

^  Thank  God  I  I  have  not  killed  him  !"  was  her  fiist 
fervent  ejaculation.  Then,  while  Louis  and  the  ser 
vants  began  making  a  sort  of  litter,  she  knelt  beside 
him,  and  strove  to  stanch  the  flowing  blood,  undeterred 
by  the  wild,  ferociour,  glare  of  his  fiery  eyes. 

"  Now,  Tom,  look  here,"  saia  Gipsy,  as  she  com- 
posedly went  on  with  her  work,  "  there's  no  use  in  your 
iookin|2^  daggers  at  me  that  way,  because  it  don't  alarn 


i 


GIPSY    HUNTS    NEW    GAME. 


3<^5 


three  or 

llier  couii 
pside  her 
llownd  b^ 

Irew  back 
ne. 

(xclaimed 

ofif,"  said 

!  ground. 

11 — just  as 

ipe,"  said 
ill  along, 
il  io  plain 

>t  iar  had 
'  form  oi 
dilricultv 
xhausted. 
ces  bend- 
It  rage  as 

5  her  fiisi 

the  ser- 

It  beside 

deterred 

he  com- 
'  in  your 
I't  alarm 


me  a  bit.  You  needn't  be  rnad  at  me  either,  for  tiiougli 
I  fired  on  you  first,  il  was  to  save  the  life  ot  an  old 
woman,  who  niiglit  have  been  a  loss  to  the  world  ;  and 
if  I  made  use  of  your  knife  afterward,  it  was  to  save 
the  life  of  Mrs.  Doctor  Nicholas  Wiseman,  who  would 
have  been  a  greater  loss  still.  So  you  see  I  couldn't 
help  myself,  and  you  may  as  well  look  at  the  matter  in 
the  same  light." 

By  this  time  the  rest  came  back  with  a  sort  of  litter  : 
and  groaning  and  writhing  with  pain,  the  heavy  form  oi 
the  wounded  giant  was  lifted  on  their  shoulders,  and 
borne  toward  the  village,  where  it  was  consigned  to  the 
care  of  the  siierilT,  who  was  thunderstruck  when  he  heard 
of  Gipsy's  daring. 

On  their  return  to  Sunset  Hall,  they  learned  from  the 
old  woman,  who  seemed  threatened  with  a  severe  illness, 
how  it  had  all  occurred. 

She  was  a  '*  poor,  lone  woman,"  she  said — a  widow, 
named  Mrs.  Donne,  livinig  by  herself  for  ten  odd  years, 
in  a  little  cottage  beyond  St.  Mark's. 

She  was  reputed  to  be  rich — a  rumor  she  never  con- 
tradicted, as  it  made  her  neighbors  treat  her  with  distinc- 
tion, in  the  hope  that  she  would  remember  them  in  her 
will. 

Big  Tom,  hearing  the  rumor,  and  believing  it,  came 
to  her  cottage,  and  demanded  money.  She  had  none  to 
give  him,  and  told  him  so,  which  exasperated  him  be- 
yond measure.  He  threatened  to  kill  her  if  she  persisted 
in  refusing,  and  gagged  her  to  stifle  her  cries.  Then, 
Snding  her  still  obstinate,  he  carried  her  oflf  with  him  to 
the  spot  where  Gipsy  had  found  them,  and  again  offered 
her  her  life  if  she  would  deliver  up  her  money.  Still 
she  was  forced  to  refuse,  and  maddened  with  rage  and 
disappointment,  'le  was  about  to  murder  her,  when  Gips| 
proTidentially  appeared,  and  saved  her  life. 


!  •      II' 

Ml 


'   '  ! 


i  • 

''         '/ 


^^<. 


t. 


w 


H 


io6 


CELESTF/S     TRIAL. 


Nol  witlioiit  many  interruptions  was  this  story  told 
and  ere  it  was  conckided,  Mrs.  Donne  was  in  a  high 
fever.  Gipsy  iusiallcd  herself  as  nurse,  and  listened  in 
wonder  and  surprise  to  her  raving  of  infants  left  to  per- 
ish in  snow  st  jrnis,  and  her  wild  wordi  of  sorrow  and 
renaorse  for  some  past  crime. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


1 ' 


14: 


CELESTE  S   TRIAL. 


"This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 
But  slie  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow, 

Ere  we  two  meet  again. 
He  turned  his  charger  as  he  spoke, 

Upon  the  river  sliore  ; 
He  gave  the  reins  a  shake,  and  said 

Adieu  forevermore, 
My  love  ! 

Adieu  forevermore." 


ARRY"  Celeste  Pearl ! —  a  girl  without  t 
farthing!  a  beggar!  a  foundling!  I'm 
astonished,  thunderstruck,  speechless,  sir,  at 
your  audacity  in  proposing  such  a  thing  !  1 
have  objections,  sir — most  rf<r-cided  objec- 
tions, sir  !  Don't  ever  let  me  hear  you  mention  such  a 
thing  again  !" 

And  Squire  Erliston  stamped  up  and  down,  red  with 
rage  and  indignation. 

Louis  stood  with  darkening  brows,  flashing  eyes,  and 
folded  strmS;  before  him — outwardly  quiet,  but  comprefl< 


CELESTE'S     TRIAL. 


307 


ling  his  lips  to  keep  down  the  fiery  tide  of  his  rising 
passion. 

"  What  iire  your  objections,  sir  ?"  he  asked  witii 
forced  calmness. 

"  Objections  !  Why,  sir,  there's  so  many  objections 
that  I  can't  enumerate  them.  First  place,  she  hasn't  ;i 
cent ;  second,  nobody  knows  who  or  what  she  is  ;  tliin:, 
she'll  never  do  for  my  granddaughter-in-law.  There 
fore,  sir,  please  drop  the  subject  ;  I  never  want  to  heai 
anything  more  about  it — for  I  shouldn't  consent  if  you 
were  to  plead  on  your  knees.  The  girl's  a  good  girl 
enough  in  her  place,  but  she  won't  do  for  the  wife  of 
,^ouis  Oranmore.  What,  sir,  consent  that  you,  the  heir 
to  the  richest  landed  estate  this  side  the  north  pole, 
should  marry  a  poor,  unknown  beggar-girl,  who  has  lived 
all  her  life  on  the  charity  of  others !  No,  sir,  never  !" 
said  the  squire,  furiously,  Ringing  himself  into  his  chair 
and  mopping  his  inflamed  visage. 

The  face  of  Louis  was  white  with  suppressed  rage, 
and  with  an  expression  of  ungovernable  anger,  he  burst 
from  the  roon?.  In  his  fierce  excitement  he  saw  not 
whither  he  went,  until  he  ran  full  against  Totty,  who  was 
entering,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Lor',  Mas'r  Lou,  how  you  scare  me  !  You  like  to 
knock  me  upside  down.  Hi  I  here's  a  'pistle  for  you, 
what  Curly,  old  Miss  Ager's  gai,  brought  over,  an'  told 
me  her  young  Miss  'Slcss  sent  you." 

"  From  Celeste,"  exclaimed  Louis,  snatching  it  fronr 
her  hand  and  tearing  it  open.  His  gifts  fell  to  the  floor  ; 
and  scarcely  able  to  believe  his  senses,  he  read  'ts  con- 
tents— his  brow  growing  darker  and  darker  as  he  read. 
He  crushed  it  fiercely  in  his  hand  as  he  finished,  and 
paced  up  and  down  the  long  hall  like  a  madman. 

"  And  such  is  woman's  love  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
loornful  laugh.    "  She  gives  me  up,  and  bids  me  be 


i' 


■     ■(: 


3oS 


CELESTE'S    TRIAL. 


happy  with  Minnette.  What  drove  that  jealous  girl  t<A 
love  m:  ;  ami  to  make  Celeste  believe  I  loved  her  first? 
Everything  seems  to  cross  my  path — this  mad  girl's  pas- 
sion, and  my  grandfather's  obstinate  refusal.  Well,  she 
shall  be  mine,  in  spite  of  fate.  I  will  marry  her  pri- 
vately, and  take  her  with  me  to  Italy.  Yes,  that  is  the 
only  plan.  I  will  ride  over  to  the  cottage,  and  obtain 
her  consent ;  and  then,  let  those  I  leave  behind  do 
as  they  will,  my  happiness  will  be  complete." 

So  saying,  he  quitted  the  house,  inounted  his  horse, 
and  rode  rapidly  toward  the  cottage. 

Celeste  was  in  the  garden,  binding  up  a  broken  rose- 
bush— looking  paler,  but  lovelier  than  ever.  She  uttered 
a  half-stifled  cry  as  she  saw  him.  and  the  last  trace  oi 
color  faded  from  her  face  as  he  leaped  from  his  horse 
and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Celeste,  what  means  this  ?"  he  demanded,  impetu- 
ously. "  Do  you  really  believe  this  talc  told  you  by 
Minnette  ?" 

"  Oh,  Louis,  is  it  not  true  ?"  exclaimed  Celeste,  clasp- 
ing her  hands. 

"  True  !  Celeste,  Celeste  !  do  you  take  me  to  be  such 
a  villain  ?  As  heaven  hears  me,  I  never  spoke  a  word  of 
love  to  her  in  my  life  !" 

This  was  true  in  the  letter,  but  not  in  the  spirit.  He 
had  never  spoken  of  love  to  Minnette,  but  he  had  hpkei 
it  often  enough. 

"Thank  heaven  !"  exclaimed  Celeste,  impulsively 
while  she  bowed  her  :ace  in  her  hands  and  wept. 

*  Dear  Celeste,"  said  Louis.,  drawing  her  gently 
toward  him,  "  do  you  retract  those  cruel  words  you  have 
written  ?    You  will  not  give  uie  up,  will  you  ?" 

**  Oh,  no  !  not  new^''  replied  Celeste,  yielding  to  his 
•mbrace.     "  Oh,  Louis,  what  do  you  suppose  made  Mio 
Bette  say  luch  dreadful  things  to  me  last  night  ?"  . 


CELESTE'S     TRIAL. 


305 


lous  girl  t«j 
)d  her  fiist  ? 
girl's  pas- 
Well,  she 
[ry  her  pri« 
that  is  the 
and  obtain 
I  behind    do 

his  horse, 

roken  rose- 
She  uttered 
ist  trace  oi 
m  his  horse 

cd,  impetu- 
Did  you  by 

leste,  clasp- 

s  to  be  such 
e  a  word  of 

spirit.     He 
had  Upked 

Qpulsively 

(pt. 

ler    gently 

s  you  have 


t»» 


ing  to  hit 
aade  Mio 

r 


Because — I  beg  you  will  not  think  me  conceited. 
dearest — she  fancies  she  loves  me,  and  is  jealous  of  you. 
Perhaps,  too,  she  thinks  if  I  did  not  love  you,  I  mipfht 
return  her  affection  ;  and  l.ie  only  way  to  end  her  chim- 
erical hopes  is  by  our  immediate  union.  Say,  dear  love, 
when  will  you  be  mine  ?" 

"  Oh,  Louis  !  1  do  not  know,"  said  Celeste,  blush- 
ing scarlet.  "  I  do  not  want  to  be  married  so  soon,  and 
— you  must  ask  your  grandfather." 

"  I  have  asked  him,  dearest." 

"  And  he " 

^'■Refused:  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  He  is  obstinate 
and  eccentric.  But,  Celeste,  his  refusal  need  make  no 
difference  to  us." 

She  rai«;ed  her  blue  eyes  to  his  face,  with  a  look  of 
unconcealed  wonder. 

"  We  can  be  privately  wedded,  and  I  will  take  you 
with  me  to  Europe,  where  we  will  reside  until  I  have 
succeeded  in  pacifying  the  squire  with  mv  course." 

She  stood  before  him,  looking  calmly  and  gravely  in 
his  face.  His  .'oice  was  low,  but  full  of  passion,  and  he 
saw  not  that  earnest,  sorrowful  gaze. 

*'  Say,  Celeste — dearest  Celeste — do  you  consent  ?" 
he  asked,  his  e3'^es  filled  with  fire,  as  he  strove  to  clasp 
her.  She  shrank  away,  almost  in  fear,  and  pushed  back 
his  hands. 

"Oh,  Louis  !  don't,  don't,'  she  cried,  sadly. 

"But  you  will  consent?  you  will  go  with  me?"  he 
said,  eagerly,  passionately. 

Oh,  no,  no  ! — no,  no  !  i  cannot — it  is  impossible." 
Impossible  I     Why,  Celeste  ?" 

*'  It  would  be  wrong  " 

"Wrong!  Because  an  old  man  object  to  your  want 
of  fortune,  it  would  be  wrong  to  marry  me.  Non^-ense, 
Colwte !" 


« 


u 


'  *♦ 


•I:: 


*     i  I 


•  ■v 


i' 


'\  u . 


Sio 


CEL  ES  TE  'S     TRIAL. 


H. 


"  It  wouM  be  wrong  to    disobey  your  grandfather 
Louis." 

"Not  in  a  case  like  this,  Ce/este.  I  am  not  bound  to 
obey  him  when  he  is  unreasonable." 

**  He  is  noL  unreasonable  in  this,  Louis.     It  is  verjp 
reasonable  he  shuuld  wish  you  to  marry  one  your  equal 
:)  wealth  and  social  position." 

"And  would  jw/  have  me  marry  for  wealth  and  social 
position.  Celeste  ?"  he  asked,  reproachfully. 

"Oh  I  no,  no!  Heaven  forbid!  But  I  would  not 
marrv  V'ju  a^'ainst  his  wil.  We  can  wait — a  few  years 
v/ili  not  mrike  much  difference,  dear  Louis.  We  are 
both  youup:,  and  can  afford  to  be  patient." 

"  Patience  I  Dcjn't  talk  to  me  of  patience  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, passionately.  "You  never  loved  me  ;  if  you  had 
you  would  not  stand  thuc  on  a  little  point  of  decorum. 
Vou  are  your  own  mistress — you  have  no  parents  to 
whom  youoive  obedience  ;  my  mother  is  willing  enough, 
and  yet,  because  an  old  man  objects  to  your  want  of 
money,  you  stand  there  in  your  cold  dignity,  and  exhort 
me  to  be  patient  and  wait.  Celeste,  I  will  not  wait.  You 
*nusi  come  with  me  to  Italy  !" 

But  she  only  stood  before  him,  pale  and  sad,  but  firm 
and  unyielding. 

Long  and  elcjquently  he  pleaded,  passionately  and  ve- 
hemently he  uff^ed  her,  but  all  in  vain.  She  listened  and 
answered  by  silence  and  tears,  but  steadily  and  firmly 
refused  to  consent, 

'*  Well.  Celeste,  will  you  come?"  he  asked,  at  lerigth, 
after  a  lonqr  and  earnest  entreaty. 

"Louis,  I  cannot.  Not  even  for  your  sake  can  I  do 
what  my  conscience  tells  me  would  be  wrong.  You  say 
your  grandfather  has  no  right  to  cont'd  you  in  your 
choice  of  a  wife.  It  may  be  so  ;  but  even  in  that  case  I 
would  not  marry  you  against  his  wishes.     Perhaps  I  am 


■1 


CELESTE  S     TRIAL. 


3" 


m 


frandfathei 
fot  bound  to 

Tt  is  very 
your  eqna'i 

|h  and  social 

would  not 

few  years 

IS.     We   are 

ce  !"  he  ex- 

;  if  you  had 

of  decorum. 

parents  to 

ing  enough, 

iur  want  of 

,  and  exhort 

'/  wait.    You 

ad,  but  firm 

telyand  ve- 

tistened  and 

and  firmly 

I,  at  le!!gth. 

ke  can  I  do 
•  You  say 
3u  in  your 
that  case  1 
rhaps  I  am 


proud  and  sinful  ;  but,  Louis,  I  could  never  enter  a  fam- 
ily who  would  not  be  willing  to  receive  me.  Besides, 
my  duty  is  here  with  Miss  Hagar  If  I  were  to  marry 
)rou,  what  would  become  of  her,  alone  and  childless.  No, 
Louis,  I  am  not  so  utterly  selfish  and  ungrateful.  Dc 
not  urge  me  further,  as  I  see  you  are  about  to  do,  for  mj 
"dissolution  is  unalterable.  Yielding  as  my  nature  natur 
tlly  is,  I  can  be  firm  at  times  ;  and  in  this  case,  nothing 
that  you  can  siy  will  alter  my  determination." 

He  stood  erect  before  her,  his  fine  face  clouded  with 
anger  and  mortification. 

"  This,  then,  is  your  last  resolve  ?"  he  said,  coldly. 

"  It  is.  Dear  Louis,  forgive  me  if  I  have  caused  you 
pain.  Believe  me,  it  has  grieved  me  deeply  to  be  obliged 
£o  speak  thus,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  looking  up  pleadingly,  sorrowfully,  in  his  face. 

**  Oh !  do  not  trouble  yourself  about  grieving  me, 
fair  Celeste,"  he  said,  scornfully  ;  the  glamour  has  faded 
from  my  eyes,  that  is  all.  I  fancied  you  little  less  than 
an  angel.  I  was  fool  enough  to  believe  you  loved  me 
well  enough  to  brave  even  the  opinion  of  the  world  for 
my  sake.  I  find  you  are  only  a  woman,  after  all,  with 
more  pride  and  ambition  than  love  for  me.  Well,  be  it 
so.  I  have  never  SYPd  for  the  favor  of  any  one  yet,  and 
cannot  begin  no*;'  Ft'swclr;  Celeste;  forgive  me  for 
trespassing  thus  1  >:)g  Jip33  ysir  time,  but  it  will  be  long 
!>efore  it  happens  again.' 

He  turned  away  with  a  haughty  bow.  She  saw  he 
was  angry,  disappointed  and  deeply  mortified,  and  tears 
sprang  to  her  gentle  eyes. 

'*  Oh,  Louis  !"  was  all  she  could  say,  «is  sobs  choked 
her  utterance. 

He  turned  round  and  stood  gazing  coldly  upon  her 

"Well,  Miss  Pearl,"  he  said,  calmly. 

**  Ch,   Louis  1  dear   Louis  !   forgive  me  I  do  nol  or 


!. 


^i;:il»'  1 


•'•.     tj 


7^', 


"i. 


J" 


CELESTE'S    TRIAL. 


angry  with  your  Celeste.     Oh,  Louis  !  I  am  sorry  I  hav€ 

offended  you." 

"I  am  not  anqry,  Miss  Pearl,  only  a  little  disap- 
pointed. You  have  a  perfect  right  to  reject  me  if  you 
choose.  My  onl}'  regret  is  that  I  should  have  troubled 
you  so  long.     I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  good-day." 

And  with  the  last  bitter  words  he  sprang  on  his  horso 
and  in  a  few  minutes  was  out  of  sight. 

All  Celeste's  fortitude  gave  way  then  ;  and  sinking 
on  a  seat,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept  the 
bitterest  tears  she  had  ever  shed  in  her  life.  Louis  was 
gone,  and  in  anger,  believing  her  proud,  artful,  and 
fickle — perhaps  he  would  love  her  no  more  ;  and  her 
bosom  heaved  with  convulsive  sobs  at  the  thought. 

All  that  day  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  Louis  came 
not.  How  wearily  the  hours  dragged  on  while  slie  sat 
listening  in  vain  for  his  coming.  Taking  her  work,  she 
would  sit  by  the  window  commanding  a  view  of  the 
road,  and  strain  her  eyes  in  the  fruitless  endeavor  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  his  tall,  elegant  figure.  At  every 
noise  she  would  start  convulsively^  and  a  wild  thrill 
would  dart  through  her  heart,  in  the  hope  that  it  might 
be  his  footsteps.  Then  sinking  back  disappointed,  she 
would  close  her  eyes  to  force  bark  the  gathering  tears, 
and  strive  to  keep  down  the  choking  sensation  that  would 
arise  to  her  throat.  And  when  night  fell,  and  still  he 
came  not,  unable  longer  to  restrain  herself,  she  would 
hastily  seek  her  own  chamber,  and  weep  and  sob  until, 
utterly  prostrated  in  mind  and  body,  the  morning  would 
bnd  her  pale,  ill,  and  languid,  with  slow  step  and  heavy, 
dimmed  eyes. 

The  morning  of  the  fourth  day  came,  and  this  sus 
pense  was  growing  iitolerable.     Breakfast  had  passed 
untasted,  and  suffering  with  a  dull,  throbbing  headache, 
she  was  about  to  quit  the  room,  when   ihe  sound   of  • 


CELESTE'S     TRIAL. 


l^l 


Irry  I  have 
ttle  disar>. 

»e    if    yo;i 

troubled 
)od-iJay." 
his  horso 

sinkin.o 
wept  the 
ouis  was 
rtful,  and 
;  and  her 
ight. 

>uis  came 
ile  she  sat 
ivork,  she 
'W  of  the 
deavor  to 
At  every 
nld  thrill 
t  it  might 
nted,  she 
ng  tears, 
lat  would 
I  still  he 
'e  would 
ob  until, 
»g  would 
id  heavy, 

his  sus 
I  passed 
eadache, 
9d   of  a 


hoise's  hoofs  thundering  down  the  road  mads  hei  ieap 
to  her  feet  with  a  wild  thrill  of  joy  that  sent  new  light  to 
hcf;  eyes  and  new  color  to  her  cheeks. 

"  He  is  come  !  he  is  come  !"  she  exclaimed,  rushing 
to  the  door.  A  cry  of  disappointment  almost  escaped 
her,  as  her  eye  fell  on  Gipsy  in  the  act  of  dismounting. 

"  Here  I  am,  all  aiive,  like  a  bag  of  grasshoppers,' 
exclaimed  Gipsy,  as,  gathering  her  riding-habit  in  her 
hand,  she  tripped  with  her  usual  airy  motion  up  the 
garden  walk.  "  How  have  you  bee^  this  age.  Celeste  ? 
My  stars  !  how  pale  you  are  ;  have  you  been  ill  ?" 

*'  I  have  not  been  very  well  for  the  past  week,"  said 
Celeste,  forcing  a  smile.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  yoa 
Come  in." 

Gipsy  entered  ;  and  having  saluted  Miss  Hagar, 
threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  snatching  off  her  hat,  be- 
gan swinging  it  by  the  strings.  Celeste  took  her  sewing 
and  seated  herself  by  the  window. 

**  Well,  1  declare !  we  have  had  such  times  up  at  the 
Hall  this  week,"  said  Gipsy.  "  Have  you  heard  how  I 
captured  Big  Tom  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Celeste,  in  surprise ;  whereupon  Gipsy 
related  what  had  occurred,  ending  with  : 

"  Old  Mrs.  Donne  is  still  very  sick,  and  raves  at  an 
appalling  rate  about  babies,  and  snow-storms,  and  all 
such  stuff.  Big  Tom's  in  prison,  rapidly  recovering 
from  his  wo'inds,  which  is  good  news  for  me  •  for  I 
should  be  sorry  to  think  I  had  killed  the  poor  wretch. 
I  should  have  come  over  to  see  you  sooner,  only  Louis 
it  going  away,  and  we've  all  been  as  busy  as  nailers." 

*'  Going  away !"  echoed  Celeste,  growing  deadly 
pale. 

"  Yes ;  he  leaves  here  to-morrow  morning.  He  is 
going  to  Italj,  and  will  not  be  back  lor  several  years. 
14 


-M 


i. 


■ 

Wi          ,     &; 

Pt 

",'  ■            ^ ! 

r ' 

i    ! 

1  ■. ,' 

i;^ 

•-<  <i 

!•   ■-! 

•;  '  *'     -                     )■< : 

;      '( 

*-:                   3^^ 

■•  >'." 

■  i  ■                   1  .' 

(■  ■'' 

'    \' 

^'                    I  ' 

^il  4 


i 


11 


SU 


CELESTE'S     2  RIAL, 


But,  my  goodness  !    Celeste,  what's   th«   '.i.kt^tt  ?     Yon 
look  as  though  you  were  going  to  faint ;" 

"It's  nothing- — only  :i  sudden  spasm,  *  said  Celeste 
in  a  low,  smoihered  voice,  dropping  brr  forehead  on  her 
hand,  while  her  long,  golden  ringleta,  falling  like  a  vail 
over  her  face,  hid  it  from  view. 

"The  notion  took  him  so  s»<iddenly/'  continued 
Gipsy,  "  that  we  have  scarcely  bf-gun  to  recover  from 
our  astonishment  yet.  It's  no  uic  trying  to  coax  hin. 
not  to  go,  for  lie  puts  on  that  irou  face  of  his,  ana  iays 
'  the  thing's  decided.'  Men  of  ^'«ni us  always  are  a  r^ucer 
crotchety  set,  they  say.  Thank  Minerva,  I'm  not  a 
genius,  anyway — one  of  that  sort's  enough  in  any  family 
Minnette,  too,  went  off  the  other  day  with  the  Carson s 
for  Washington — good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish,  I  say 
So,  when  Louis  goes,  I'll  be  alone  in  my  glory,  and  you 
must  come  over  and  spend  a  few  days  with  me.  Won't 
you,  Celeste  ?" 

There  was  no  reply.  Gipsy  gazed  in  wonder  and 
alarm  at  her,  as  she  sat  still  and  motionless  as  a  figure 
in  marble. 

"  Celeste  !  Celeste  !  what's  the  matter  ?"  she  said, 
going  over  and  trying  to  raise  her  head.  "Arc you  sick, 
or  fainting,  or  what  ?" 

Celeste  looked  up,  and  Gipsy  started  back  as  she  saw 
thit  white,  despairing  face,  and  wild,  anguished  eyes. 

*'  You  are  ill,  Celeste,"  she  said,  in  alarm.  "  Your 
Irands  are  like  ice,  and  your  face  is  cold  as  death.  Come, 
let  me  assist  you  to  your  room." 

"  Thank  you — I  will  go  myself.  I  will  be  better,  if 
let  alone,"  said  Celeste,  faintly,  as  she  arose  to  her  feet, 
and,  sick  and  gidd''^,  tottered  rather  than  walked  from 
ihe  room. 

Gipsy  looked  after  her,  perplexed  and  anxious. 

'Well,  now,  I'd  like  to  know  what  alt  thig  is  about, 


CELESTE  S     TRIAL. 


3«S 


(i^  I 


*^.6/  ?     Yoo 

lid  Celeste 

lead  on  her 

Jike  a  vail 

continued 
:over  from 
coax  bin. 
fs,  ana  iays 
are  a  r^ucer 
I'm    not    3 
any  family 
he  Carsons 
>ish,    I   say 
ry,  and  you 
ne.     Won't 

wonder  and 
as  a  figure 

she  said, 
re  you  sick, 

as  she  saw 
ishcd  eyes, 
m.  "  Your 
ith.  Come, 

5  better,  if 
:o  her  feet, 
Iked  from 

ous. 

is  about, 


ghe  muttered  to  herself.  "Wonder  if  Lous*  departure 
has  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  They've  hud  a  quarrel,  I 
siipi)ose,  and  Louis  is  going  off  in  a  huff.  Well,  it'i 
none  of  my  business,  anyway,  so  I  sha'n't  interfere. 
Louis  looked  as  if  he'd  like  to  murder  me  when  I  asked 
him  what  he  was  going  to  do  without  Celeste,  and 
walked  off  without  evsr  deigning  to  answer  me.  But  I 
g'less  I  ain't  afraid  of  him  ;  and  if  he  hasn't  behaved 
well  to  poor  Celeste,  I'll  tell  him  a  piece  of  my  mind 
myway  before  he  goes."  And  the  soliloquizing  Gipsy 
left  the  house  and  rode  thoughtfully  homeward. 

During  the  rest  of  that  day  and  night  Celeste  did  not 
leave  her  room.  Miss  Hai.;ar  grew  anxious,  and  several 
times  came  to  her  door  to  beg  admittance,  but  the  low 
(Toice  within  always  said  : 

"  No,  no  :  not  now,  I  will  be  better  to-morrow — only 
leave  me  alone." 

And,  troubled  and  perplexed.  Miss  Hagar  was  forced 
Lo  yield.  Many  times  she  approached  the  chamber  door 
to  listen,  but  all  within  was  still  as  death — not  the  faint- 
5St  sound  reached  her  ear. 

'*  Has  Miss  Celeste  left  her  room  yet  ?"  inquired  Miss 
Hagar,  the  following  morning,  of  her  sable  handmaid. 
Curly. 

"  Laws !  yes,  missus  •  she  corned  outen  her  room 
fore  de  sun  riz  dis  mornin'  :  an'  I  'dare  to  goodness  !  I 
ike  to  drop  when  I  seed  her.  She  was  jes'  as  pale  as  a 
,^hos',  wid  her  eyes  sunken  right  in  like,  an'  lookin' 
irefful  sick.  She'd  on  her  bunnit  and  shawl,  and  tole 
me  to  tell  you  she  war  a-goin'  out  for  a  walk.  'Deed,  she 
needed  a  walk,  honey,  for  her  face  was  jes'  as  white  as 
dat  ar  lable-cloff." 

"Where  was  she  going?"  inquired  Miss  Hagar, 
Alarmed. 

'*  'De€d,  I  didn't  mind  to  ax  lirr,  cause  she  'peared  in 


» • 


I'" 


W 


pv. 


1 


3i« 


CELESTirS     TRIAL. 


'stress  u'  mind  'boul  soinefin  or  udder.  I  .ooked  arter 
her,  dough,  an'  seed  her  take  de  road  down  to  de  skore," 
replied  Curly. 

Still  more  perplexed  and  troubled  by  this  strange 
and  most  unusual  conduct  on  the  part  cf  Celeste,  Miss 
Hagar  sealed  herself  at  the  breakfast-table,  having 
vainly  wailed  an  hour  past  the  usual  time  for  the  return 
of  the  young  girl. 

When  Celeste  left  the  cottage,  it  was  with  a  mind 
filled  with  but  one  idea — that  of  seeing  Louis  once  more 
Before  he  left.  But  few  people  were  abroad  when  she 
passed  through  the  village  ;  and  descending  to  the  beach, 
she  seated  herself  behind  a  projecting  rock,  where,  un- 
seen herself,  she  could  behold  him  going  away. 

Out  on  the  glittering  waves,  dancing  in  the  first  rays 
of  the  morning  sunlight,  lay  a  schooner,  rising  and  fall- 
ing lazily  on  the  swell.  It  was  the  vessel  in  which  Gipsy 
had  told  her  Louis  was  to  leave  St.  Mark's,  and  Celeste 
gazed  upon  it,  with  that  passionate,  straining  gaze,  with 
which  one  might  look  on  a  coffin,  where  the  one  we  love 
best  is  about  to  be  laid.  Hours  passed  on,  bu»;  she 
heeded  them  not,  as,  seated  on  a  low  rock,  with  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  knees,  she  waited  for  his  coming. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  time,  a  boat  put  off  from  the 
schjoner,  and,  propelled  by  the  strong  arms  of  four 
sailors,  soon  touched  shore.  Three  of  them  landed,  an  J 
took  the  road  leading  to  Mount  Sunset.  Half  an  hour 
passed,  and  they  reappeared,  laden  with  trunks  in^ 
valises,  and  followed  by  Louis  and  Gipsy. 

He  seemed  careless,  even  gay,  while  Gipsy  wore  a 
lad  troubled  look,  all  unused  to  her.     Little  did  eithe 
of  them  dream  of  the  wild,  despairing  eyes  watchinj^ 
them,  as  if  her  very  life  were  concentrated  in  that  agon- 
izing gaze. 

**  Well,  good-bye,  nut  beUe"  laid  Louii.  with  a  last  cm* 


m 


II  i       V 


CMLESTB'S     TRIAL, 


VI 


#1 


jked  arter 
Ide  sk  ore," 

|is  strange 

;ste,  Mi  S3 

having 

c  return 

til  a  mind 
»Dce  more 
when  she 
the  beach, 
vhere,  un- 

i  first  raya 
I  and  fall- 
lich  Gipsy 
nd  Celeste 
gaze,  with 
Hie  we  love 
1,  bu«:  she 
her  hands 
ing. 

'  from  thfl 
s  of  four 
nded,  an  J 
f  an  honr 
unks   «nd 

sy  wore  i 
Jid  eithe 
watchinj^ 
bat  agon* 


brace.     "You  perceive  my  boat  is  on  the  shoie,  an:;  nay 

bark  is  on  the  sea,  and  I  must  away." 

"Good-bye,"  repeated  Gipsy,  mechanically. 
He  turned  away  and  walked  toward  the  boat,  enteie»i 
it.  and  the  seamen  pushed  off.  Gipsy  stood  gazing  aftei 
his  tall,  graceful  form  until  the  boat  reached  the  schuoi;- 
er,  and  he  ascended  the  deck.  Then  it  danced  away  ir. 
the  fresh  morning  breeze  down  the  bay,  until  it  becmie 
a  mere  bpeck  in  the  distance,  and  then  faded  altogether 
trom  view. 

Dashing  away  a  tear,  Gipsy  turned  to  ascend  the 
rocks,  when  the  flutter  of  a  muslin  dress  from  behind  a 
cliff  caught  her  eye.  With  a  vague  presentiment  flash- 
ing across  her  mind,  she  approached  to  sec  who  it  was. 
/  nd  there  she  beheld  Celeste,  lyinj^  cald  and  WBtcleu 
^A  the  sand. 


I  last  cm*' 


\<  !'■ 


lit 


*'THE    QUEEN    OF    SONG.* 


v\ 


ff 


M  tt 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


"  THE    QUEEN    OF    SONO.** 

"Give  me  the  boon  of  love — 

Renown  is  but  a  breath, 
Whose  loudest  echo  ever  float! 

From  out  the  iialls  of  death. 
A  loving  t')-c  beguiles  ine  more 

Than  Fame's  emblazon'd  seal ; 
And  one  sweet  note  of  tenderness, 

Than  triumph's  wildest  peal." — TUCKSRUAH. 

i,RANMORE,  my  dear  fellow,  welcome  back 
to  Italy!"  exclaimed  a  distinguished-look- 


ing man,  as  Louis — the  day  after  his  arrival 
in  Venice — was  passing  through  one  ol 
the  picturesque  streets  of  that  *'  palace- 
crowned   city." 

"  Ah,  Lugari  !  happy  to  see  you  !"  said  Louis,  ex- 
tending his  hand,  wliich  was  cordially  grasped. 

"  When  did  you  arrive  ?" asked  the  Italian,  as,  linking 
his  arm  through  that  of  Louis,  they  strolled  toward  the 
"Bridge  of  the  Rialto." 

"  Only  yesterday.  My  longings  for  Venice  were  too 
itrong  to  be  resisted  ;  so  I  returned." 

"  Then  you  have  not  heard  our  *  Queen  of  Song ' 
yet?"  inquired  his  companion. 

"No.     Who  is  she?" 

"An  angel !  a  seraph  !  the  loveliest  woman  you  evei 
beheld  ! — sings  like  a  nightingale,  and  has  everybody 
rmving  about  her  !" 

"  Indeed  !     And  what  is  the  name  of  this  paragon  ?'* 

"  She  is  called  Madame  Evelini — a  widow,  I  believe 
—English  or  Americaa  by  birth.    She  came  here  as  pool 


RMAII. 

>me  back 

hcd-look- 
lis  arrival 
h  one  ol 
palace- 


<( 


l^ouis,  ex- 

s,  linking 
>vvard  the 

were  too 

)f  Song' 


you  eici 
rcrybody 

agon  ••• 
[  believe 

'ASpOOt 


"TVy^    QUEEN    OF    SONGr 


.'^ 


Jif 


u  Job  and  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  N(nv,  s!ic  has  nade  a 
fortune  on  the  stage  ;  but  is  as  proud  as  ever.  Half  the 
men  at  Venice  are  sighing  at  licr  feet  ;  but  no  icicle  ever 
was  colder  than  she — it  is  impossible  to  warm  her  into 
love.  There  was  an  Englisii  duke  here  not  long  ago. 
who — with  reverence  be  it  spoken  ! — had  more  monej 
than  brains,  and  actually  went  so  frr  as  to  propose  ma/ 
riage  ;  aad,  to  the  amazement  of  himself  and  everybody 
else,  was  most  decidedly  and  emphatically  rejected.  ' 

"  A  wonderful  woman,  indeed,  to  reject  a  ducal 
crown.     When  does  she  sing  ?" 

"To-night.     You  must  come  witli  me  and  hear  her." 

"  With  pleasure.  Look,  Lugari — what  a  magnificent 
woman  that  is  !" 

"  By  St.  Peter  !  it's  the  very  woman  we  are  speaking 
of —  Madame  Evelini  herself !"  exclaimed  Lugari. 
*  Come,  we'll  join  her.  I  have  the  pleasure  of  her  ac- 
quaintance. Take  a  good  look  at  her  first,  and  tell  me 
if  she  does  not  justify  my  praises." 

Louis,  with  some  curiosity,  scrutinized  the  lady  the) 
were  approaching.  She  was  about  the  middle  height^ 
with  an  exquisitely-proportioned  figure — a  small,  fair, 
but  somewhat  melancholy  face,  shaded  by  a  profusion  of 
pale-brown  ringlets.  Her  complexion  was  exquisitely 
fair,  with  dark-blue  eyes  and  beautifully  chiseled  fea- 
tures. As  he  gazed,  a  strange,  vague  feeling,  that  he  had 
seen  that  face  somewhere  before,  Hashed  across  his  mind 

"  Well,  what   do   you  think  of    her.'"   said   Lugari 
rousing  him  from  a  reverie  into  vvL.ch  he  was  falling, 

"  That  she  is  a  very  lovely  woman — there  can  be  biu 
»ne  opinion  about  that." 

"  How  old  would  you  take  her  to  be  ?" 

**  About  twenty,  or  twenty-three  at  the  moiL" 

**  Phew  !  she's  over  thirty." 

*<  Oh,  impossible .'" 


w 


1 


■r 

•ii' 


Sao 


"  THE    QUEEN     OF     SONGr 


t» 


f'''  :  J 


■II 


••Fact,  sir;  I  Iiad  it  from  her  own  lips.  Now  I'll 
present  you  ;  but  take  care  of  your  lieart,  tny  ooy— few 
men  can  resist  the  tascinations  of  ihc  Queen  of  Song." 

**  I  have  a  counter-cliarni,"  said  J^ouis,  with  a  colli 
imilc. 

"  Ihe  memory  of  some  fairer  face  in  America,  I  sup 
pose.     Well,    we   shall    see.       Good-morning,    Madame 
Evelini,"  he  said,  acknowledging  thai   lady's  salulatior.. 
"Charming  day.     Allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  friend 
Mr.  Oranmore." 

From  tile  first  moment  the  lady's  eyes  had  fallen  on 
the  face  of  Louis,  she  had  gazed  as  if  fascinated.  Every 
trace  of  color  slowly  faded  frt)in  her  lace,  leaving  her 
cold  and  pale  as  marble.  As  his  name  was  uttered  she 
reeled,  as  if  she  were  faint,  and  grasped  the  arm  of  Lu- 
gari  for  support. 

"  Whom  did  you  say  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  breathless 
voice. 

'*  Mr.  Oranmore,  a  young  American,"  replied  Lugari, 
looking  in  amazement  from  the  lady  to  Louis — who, 
quite  as  much  amazed  as  himself,  stood  gazing  upon 
her,  lost  in  wonder. 

"Oranmore  !"  she  exclaimed,   unheeding  their  looki 
— "  Oranmore  I     Surely  not  Barry  Oranmore  ?" 

"  That  was  my  father's  name,"  replied  the  astonished 
Louis. 

A  low  cry  broke  from  the  white  lips  of  the  lady,  as 
her  hands  flew  up  and  covered  her  face.  Lugari  and 
Louis  gazed  in  each  other's  faces  in  consternation.  She 
dropped  her  hands  at  last,  and  said,  in  a  low,  hurried 
voice : 

"  Excuse  this  agitat*  3n,  Mr.  Oranmore.  Can  I  have 
the  pleasure  of  a  private  interview  with  you  ?  * 

"  Assuredly,  madam,"  said  the  astonished  Louis, 

**  Well,  call  at  my  residence  in  the  Pdlazzo  B— ,  thii 


''THE    QUEEIV    OF    SONOr 


J«« 


Now  Ml 
ooy—  few 
'f  Song." 
Ivith  a  colli 

Jrica,  I  sup 

MiicJame 

salutatiou. 

my  friend 

fallen  on 
ted.  Every 
leaving  her 
uttered  she 
irin  of   Lu- 

i  breathless 

ied  Lugari, 
>ouis — who, 
azing  upon 

their  looki 

3?" 

astonished 

he  lady,  as 
-ugari  and 
ition.  She 
*w,  hurried 

Can  I  have 


Louis, 


^thii 


ifternoon.     And  now  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,  gen- 
tlemen.    Good-morning." 

She  hurried  away,  leaving  the  two  young  men  OYtr- 
whelmed  w'th  a^iazenicnt. 

"  What  the  deuce  does  this  mean  ?"  said  Lugari. 

"That's  more  than  1  can  tell.  I'm  as  much  ia  the 
dark  as  you  are." 

"She  cannot  have  fallen  in  love  with  him  ulready," 
said  Lugari,  in  the  musing  tone  of  one  speakiat;  to  him 
self. 

Louis  laughed. 

"  Hardly,  I  think.  I  cannot  expect  to  succeed  where 
a  royal  duke  failed." 

"  There's  no  accounting  for  a  woman's  whims  ;  and 
he's  confoundedly  good-looking,"  went  on  Lugari,  in 
the  same  meditative  tone. 

"  Come,  Antonio,  none  of  your  nonsense,''  said  T,oui« 
"Come  with  me  lo   my  studio,  and  spend  the  morning 
with  me.     It  will  help  to  pass  the  time  until  the  hour 
for  calling  on  her  ladyship," 

They  soon  reached  the  residence  of  the  artist.  The 
door  was  opened  for  them  by  a  boy  of  such  singular 
beauty,  that  Lugari  stared  at  him  in  surprise  and  ad- 
miration. His  short,  crisp,  black  curls  fell  over  a  brow 
of  snowy  whiteness,  and  his  pale  face  looked  paler  in 
contrast  with  his  large,  melancholy,  black  eyes. 

"Well,  Isadore,"  spid  Louis  kindly,  "has  there  been 
itny  one  here  since  ?" 

"  No,  signor,"  replied  the  boy,  dropping  his  eyes, 
while  a  faint  color  rose  to  his  cheek,  as  he  met  the  pene- 
trating gaze  of  the  stranger. 

"That  wilJ  do,  thdn.     Bring  wine  and  cigartf  And 

ICffVC  U<J." 

The  hoy  did  as  directed,  and  hurried  from  the  rooa. 


<  ■  i 


!f    i 


.I' 


!•• 


""THE    QUEEN    OF    SONG: 


.1' 


n 


.1  \ 


*'  Handso  joie  lad  that,"  said  Lugan,  carelessly,  Who 
is  he  ?" 

"Isadore  something — I  forget  what.  He  is^  as  you 
■ay,  remarkably  handsome." 

"  He  is  not  a  Venetian  ?" 

"No;  English,  I  believe.  I  met  him  in  NapleSj 
friendless  and  nearly  destitute;  and  took  charge  of  him. 
Have  a  glass  of  wine  ?" 

Lugari  looked  keenly  in  the  face  of  his  friend  with  a 
peculiar  smile,  that  seemed  to  say  :  "  Yes — I  understanc 
it  oerfectly  ;"  but  Louis,  busy  in  lighting  a  cigar,  did 
T-ot  observe  him. 

The  morning  passed  rapidly  away  in  gay  conversa- 
tion ;  and  at  the  hour  appointed,  Louis  sat  in  one  of  the 

magnificent  rooms  of  the  Palazzo  B ,  awaiting  the 

entrance  of  the  singer. 

She  soon  made  her  appearance,  quite  bewitching  in 
blue  silk,  but  looking  paler,  he  thought,  than  when  he 
had  seen  her  in  the  morning. 

"I  see  you  are  punctual,"  she  said,  holding  out  her 
hand,  with  a  slight  smile.  "  Doubtless  you  are  at  your 
wits'  end  trying  to  account  for  my  singular  conduct  " 

"My  only  wonder  is,  madam,  how  I  could  have 
merited  so  great  an  honor." 

"  Ah  !  I  knew  you  would  say  something  like  that," 
Uii.id  the  lady.  "  Insincere,  like  the  rest  of  your  sex. 
W^dl,  you  shall  not  be  kept  long  in  suspense.  I  have  sent 
for  you  here  to  tell  you  my  history." 

"  Madam  !"  exclaimed  Louis,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  even  so.  It  concerns  you  more  learly,  per- 
haps, than  you  think.     Listen,  now  " 

She  leaned  her  head  in  her  hand,  and,  for  a  momenti 
•eemed  lost  in  thought ;  while  Louis,  with  eager  curi- 
•tity,  waited  for  her  to  begin. 

**!  am  Irish  by  birth,"  she  said,  at  last,  looking  up 


M 


THE    QUEEN    Of    SONG:' 


V'\ 


3>3 


sly,      Who 
«.  aa  you 


in  Naples^ 
irge  of  him. 

•iend  with  a 
understanc 
I  cigar,  did 

T  conversa" 
I  one  of  the 
waiting  the 

pitching  in 
|n  when  he 

ng  out  her 
are  at  your 
onducc  " 
couJd   have 

like  that," 

your  sex. 

I  have  sent 


icarly,  per- 

a  moment, 
eager  curi- 

okini;  up 


"  I  was  born  in  Gaiway.  My  father  vas  a  poor  farmer, 
and  1  was  his  only  child.  I  grew  up  a  wild,  untutored 
country  girl  ;  and  reached  the  age  of  fifteen,  knowing 
sorrow  and  trouble  only  by  name. 

''  My  occupation,  sometimes, was  watching  my  father's 
:h.eep  on  the  mountain.  One  day,  as  I  sat  merrily  sing 
ng  to  myself,  a  horseman,  attracted  by  my  voice,  rode 
p  and  accosted  me.  I  was  bold  and  fearless,  ana 
entered  into  conversation  with  him  as  if  I  had  known 
him  all  my  life — told  him  my  name  and  residence  ;  and 
learned,  in  return,  that  he  was  a  young  American  of 
respectable  and  wealthy  connections,  who  had  visited 
Galvvay  to  see  a  friend. 

"  From  that  day  forth,  he  was  constantly  with  me ; 
and  I  soon  learned  to  watch  for  his  coming  as  I  had 
never  watched  for  any  one  before.  Ho  was  rash,  daring, 
and  passionate  ;  and,  captivated  by  my  beauty  (for  I  was 
handsome  then),  he  urged  me  to  marry  him  privately, 
and  fly  with  him.  I  had  never  learned  to  control  myself 
in  anything  ;  and  loving  him  with  a  passion  that  has 
never  yet  died  out,  I  consented.  I  fled  with  him  to 
England.  There  we  were  secretly  wedded.  He  took 
me  to  France,  where  we  remained  almost  a  year — a  year 
of  bliss  to  me.  Then  he  received  letters  demanding  his 
immediate  presence  in  America.  He  would  have  left  me 
behind  him,  and  returned  for  me  again  ;  but  I  refused 
to  leave  him  ;  1  therefore  accompanied  him  to  his  native 
land,  and  a  few  weeks  after — one  stormy  Christmas 
Eve — my  child,  a  daughter,  was  born. 

*'  I  never  saw  it  but  once.  The  nurse  must  have 
drugged  me — for  I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  a  long 
long  sleep,  that  seemed  endless  ,  and  when  I  awoke,  I 
found  myself  in  a  strange  room  with  the  face  of  a  strange 
woman  bending  over  me.  To  my  wi.d,  bewildered  in- 
quiries,  she  answered,  that  I  had  been  very  ili,  and  m? 


1* 


I" 

hi 


V- 


!  '•• 


0 


]i 


■> 


u 


3*4 


TJIB    QUEEN     OF    SONG. 


life  despaired  of  for  several  weeks;  but  that  I  was  no';^ 
reco.ciiii^.  i  a>ked  for  my  husband  and  child.  Sh-: 
knew  lioih'iLg  of  them,  she  said.  I  had  been  bruu:;!:: 
there  in  a  carriage,  after  night,  by  a  man  .vhoso  feature: 
she  could  not  recognize — he  was  so  muffled  up.  He  hai' 
paid  her  liberaMy  for  taking  charge  of  me,  and  promise. 
to  return  to  see  me  in  a  few  weeks. 

•*  I  v.'as  a  child  in  years  and  wisdcni,  and  susperic. 
nothing.  I  felt  angry  at  his  desertion,  and  cried  like  llu 
petted  child  I  was,  at  his  absence.  The  woman  was  very 
kind  to  me,  thougji  I  saw  siie  looked  upon  me  with  i, 
sort  of  contempt,  the  reason  of  which  I  did  n(»t  tiu  n 
unGerstand.  Still,  she  took  good  care  of  me,  and  in  a 
fortnight  I  was  as  well  as  ever. 

*'  One  evening,  I  sat  in  my  room  silent  and  alone 
(for  /  was  not  periiiitted  to  go  out),  and  crying  like  a 
spoiled  baby,  Vvhen  the  sound  of  a  weil-known  voice 
reached  my  ear  Irom  the  adjoining  room.  With  a  cry  of 
joy,  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  nished  from  the  room,  and  fell 
into  the  arms  of  my  husband.  In  my  joy  at  mcetii  g 
him,  I  did  not  perceive,  at  first,  the  change  those  few 
weeks  had  made  in  him.  He  was  pale  and  haggard,  and 
there  was  an  uoaccountable  something  in  his  manner 
"ihat  puzzled  me.  He  was  not  less  afifectionate  ;  but  he 
se-^med  wild,  and  restless,  and  ill  at  ease. 
'My  first  inquiry  was  for  my  child. 
*  Ir  is  dead,  Eveleen,'  he  answered,  hurriedly  ;  and 
you  were  so  ill  that  it  became  necessary  to  bring  yoi^ 
here.  1m ow  that  you  are  better,  you  must  leave  this  and 
come  with  me.' 

"*And   you   will   publicly   proclaim    our    marriage, 
and  we  will  not  be  separated  n^ore  ?'  I  eagerly  inquired. 

"  He  made   no  answer,  save  to   urge   me   tx>   make 
hattc;    In  a  few  moments  I  was  ready ;  a  carriage  at  the 


'  :' 


^'THE     QUEEN    OF    SONG. 


3»5 


1 1  was  noi^ 

'n   brui.'--';: 
■>c*  feature" 
jp.     He  ha.' 
(d  protiiic^r. 

susperJc. 
ied  iikeiiu 
n  was  wsy 
me  with  a 
id  ndt  t.'u  n 
e    and   in  a 

and  alone 
ying  like  a 
lown  voice 
'itli  a  cry  of 
)m,  and  fel) 
at  mceiirt: 
;  those  few 
aggard,  and 
fiis  manner 
ite  ;  but  he 


Bdly ;     and 

bring  yoii 

ve  this  and 

marriage. 
Y  inquired. 
5  tv>  make 
iage  at  the 


door.    He  handed  me  in,  then  followed,  and  we  dro^e 
rapidly  away. 

"  *  Where  are  we  going  ''    I  asked,  as  we  drove  along. 

"  *  Back  to  Ireland  ;  you  are  always  wishing  to  re- 
turn.' 

"  '  But  you  will  go  with  me,  will  you  not  ?'  I  asked, 
in  vague  alarm. 

" '  Yes,  yes  ;  to  be  sure,*  he  answered,  q  lickly.  Just 
then,  the  murmur  of  the  sea  reached  my  ear  ;  the  carriage 
stopped,  and  my  husband  assisted  me  out. 

"A  boat  was  in  waiting  on  the  shore.  We  both  en- 
tered, and  were  rowed  to  the  vessel  lying  in  the  harbor. 
I  reached  the  deck,  and  was  ccnductea  below  to  a  well- 
furnished  cabin. 

"'Now,  Eveleen,  you  look  fatigued  and  must  retire 
to  rest.  I  am  going  on  deck  to  join  the  captain  for  a 
few  hours,'  said  my  husband,  as  he  gently  kissed  my 
brow.  His  voice  was  low  and  agitated,  and  I  could  see 
his  face  was  deadly  pale.  Still,  no  suspicion  of  the  truth 
entered  my  mind,  I  was,  indeed,  tired;  and  wearily  dis 
engaging  myself  from  the  arms  that  clasped  mc  in  a 
parting  embrace,  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed,  and  in  af  ^w 
minutes  was  fast  asleep.  My  husband  turned  eway  and 
went  on  deck,  and — I  never  saw  him  more." 

Her  voice  failed,  and  her  lips  quivered  ;  but  after  a 
fev»  moments  she  went  on. 

''The  next  morning  the  captain  entered  the  cabin  and 
handed  me  a  letter.  I  opened  it  in  surprise.  A  draft 
for  five  thousand  dollars  fell  ovX,  but  I  saw  it  not  ;  my 
eyes  were  fixed  in  unspeakable  horror  on  the  dreadfu- 
woras  before  me. 

'*  Tke  letter  was  from  my  husband.  He  told  rne  that 
we  were  parted  forever,  that  he  had  wedded  another 
bride,  and  that  the  vessel  I  was  in  would  convey  me 
home,  where  ho  hoped  I  would  forget  him,  and  look 


^1 


['  •'  ■' 


M-'- 


i 


I: 


1.'     *. 


if 


I; 
i 


if 


■^1 


i 


$96 


u 


THE    QUEEN    OF    SONG: 


upon  the  past  year  only  as  a  dream.  I  read  that  errible 
letter  from  beginn.ng  to  end,  while  every  word  burned 
into  my  heart  and  brain  like  fire.  I  did  not  faint  nor 
shriek  ;  T  was  of  too  sanguine  a  temperament  to  do 
eithei  ;  but  1  sat  in  stupefied  despair  ;  I  was  stunned  ;  I 
could  not  realize  what  had  happened.  The  captain 
brought  me  a  newspaper,  and  showed  me  the  announce 
ment  of  his  marriage  to  some  great  beauty  and  heiress 
— some  Miss  Erliston,  who " 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Louis,  springing  fiercely  to  his 
feet.  "In  the  name  of  heaven,  of  whom  have  you  been 
talking  all  this  time?" 

"  Of  my  husband — of  your  father— of  Barry  Oran- 
more !" 

He  staggered  into  his  seat,  horror-stricken  and 
deadly  white.  There  was  a  pause,  then  he  said, 
hoarsely  : 

"  Go  on." 

"  I  know  not  how  that  voyage  passed — it  is  all  like  a 
dream  to  me.  I  reached  Liverpool.  The  captain,  who 
had  been  well  paid,  had  me  conveyed  home ;  and  still  I 
lived  and  moved  like  one  who  lives  not.  I  was  in  a 
stupor  of  despair,  and  months  passed  away  before  I  re- 
covered ;  when  I  did,  all  my  childishness  had  passed 
away,  and  I  was  in  heart  and  mind  a  woman. 

"Time  passed  on.  I  had  read  in  an  American  paper 
the  announcement  of  my  false  husbaad's  dreadful  death. 
Years  blunted  the  poignancy  of  my  grief,  and  I  began 
to  tire  of  my  aimless  life.  He  had  often  told  me  my 
voice  would  make  my  fortune  on  the  stage.  Acting  on 
this  hint,  I  went  to  London,  had  it  cultivated,  and 
learned  music.  At  last,  after  years  of  unremitting  ap- 
plication, I  made  my  debut.  It  was  a  triumph,  and  every 
fresh  attempt  crowned  me  with  new  laurels.  I  next 
risited  France    then  I  came  here  ;  and  here  I  have  been 


'*THE    QUEEN    OF    SONG: 


327 


t, 


i-'i 


lat  crrible 
>rd  burned 

faint  nor 
^ent  to  do 
[tunned  ;  I 
le  captain 
lannounce- 
md  heiress 

|cely  to  his 
you  been 

irry  Oran- 

icken    and 
I    he    said, 


s  all  like  a 
iptain,  who 
and  still  I 
I  was  in  a 
Jefore  I  re- 
lad  passed 

ican  paper 
dful  death, 
nd  I  began 
Id  me  mv 
Acting  on 
'^ated,  and 
litting  ap- 
and  every 
)•  I  next 
have  been 


ever  since.  To-day,  when  I  beheld  you,  the  verj  image 
of  your  father  as  I  knew  him  first,  I  almost  imagined  the 
j^rave  had  given  up  its  dead.  Such  is  my  story — every 
word  true,  as  heaven  hears  me.  Was  I  not  right,  when 
i  said  it  concerned  you  more  nearly  than  you  im- 
agined ?" 

"  Good  Heaven  !  And  was  my  father  such  a  villain  ?" 
said  Louis,  with  a  groan. 

"  Hush  !  Speak  no  ill  of  the  dead.  I  forgave  him 
long  ago,  and  surely  you  can  do  so  too." 

"  Heaven  help  us  all  I  what  a  world  we  live  in  I"  said 
Louis,  while,  with  a  pang  of  remorse,  his  thoughts  re- 
verted to  Celeste  ;  and  he  inwardly  thought  how  similai 
her  fate  might  have  been,  had  she  consented  to  go  with 
him. 

"  And  was  your  child  really  dead  ?"  he  inquired,  aftei 
a  pause,  during  which  she  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  sadly 
on  the  floor.  "  He  may  have  deceived  you  in  that  as  in 
other  things." 

"  I  know  not,"  she  answered  ;  "yet  I  have  always  had 
a  sort  of  presentiment  that  it  still  lives.  Oh,  if  heaven 
would  but  permit  me  to  behold  her  alive,  I  could  die 
happy  !" 

Louis  sat  gazing  upon  her  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"I  know  not  how  it  is,"  he  said,  "but  you  remind  me 
strangely  of  some  one  I  have  seen  before.     I  recognize 
your  face,  vaguely  and   indistinctly,  as  one   does  fuces 
they  see  in  dreams.     I  am  -mre  I  have  seen  some  one  re 
sembling  you  elsewhere." 

"  Only  fancy,  I  fear,'  said  the  lady,  smiling,  and 
shaking  her  head.  "Do  you  intend  hearing  me  sing 
to-night  ?" 

"  Oh,  decidedly  !  Do  you  ^hink  I  would  miss  what 
9ne  might  make  a  pilgrimage  round  the  world  to  hear 
cacc?" 


:  : 


i^  i 


'tf 


iM»^ 


%r 


■  f 


'\ 


Ik: 


I       'i 


II  i 


i-» 


A    STARTLING    DISCOVER V. 


"Flattery  !  flattery!  I  see  you  are  like  all  the  rt6L,' 
■aid  Madame  Evelini,  raising  her  flnger  reprovingly. 

"  Not  so,  madam  ;  I  never  flatter.     And  now  I  regret 
that  a  previous  engagement  renders  it  necessary  for  mc 
to  leave  you,"  said  Louis,  taking  his  hat  and  rising  lo 
cave. 

"  Well,   I   shall  expect  to  see  you  soon  again,"  she 
said,  with   an    enchanting   smile  ;   and     Louis,    haviu 
bowed  assent,    left   the   house  ;   and,  giddy  and  bewii 
dered  by  what  he    had   just   heard,    turned    in  the  di 
recti  on  of  his  own  residence. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

A   STARTLING   DISCOVKHY. 

"  Fixed  was  her  look  and  stem  her  air  ; 
Back  from  her  shoulders  streamed  her  hair  ; 
Her  figure  seemed  to  rise  more  high  ; 
Her  voice,  Despair's  wild  energy 
Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy." — Makmion. 

EEKS   passed   away.      Louis  became  a   daily 

visitor  at  the    Palazzo   B .     His  growiiii^ 

intimacy  with  the  beautiful  "Queen  ot 
Song  "  was  looked  upon  with  jealous  eyes  b}' 
her  numerous  admirers  ;  and  many  were  tho 
rumors  circulated  regarding  her  affection  for  the  hand- 
some young  American.  But  Madame  Evelini  was  either 
too  proud  or  too  indifferent  to  heed  these  reports,  and 
visited  Louis  in  kis  studio  whenever  she  pleased,  leav- 
ing the  world  to  say  of  her  what  it  listed.  Louis,  too, 
was  winning  fame  as  an  artist,  and,  next  to  madame  her 


3: 


A    STARTLING     DISCOVERY, 


the  rest,' 
[vingly. 

►w  I  regret 
Jary  for  iric 
Id  rising  lu 

[gain,"  she 

|is,    havirj:>- 

mcl  bewii^ 

in  the  di- 


e  a  daiijf 

s  growing 
)ueen     ot 
us  eyes  b}' 
'■  were  xha 
the  hand- 
vas  either 
ports,  and 
sed,  Iea\-. 
ouis,  too, 
iame  her 


329 


•el^,  was  becoming  one   of  the  greatest  celebrii.es  in 
Venice. 

"  What  a  handsome  boy  that  attendant  of  yours  is  !" 
said  the  lady,  one  day,  to  Louis,  as  Isadore  quitted  tlie 
room  ;  "  all  wlio  visit  you  vie  with  each  other  in  theii 
praises  of  his  beauty." 

"  Who  ?  Isadore  ?  Yes,  he  is  handsome  ;  but  a  most 
singular  youth — silent;  taciturn,  at  times  almost  hercc 
and  at  others,  sullenly  morose." 

"  He  seems  to  have  a  strong  antipathy  to  ladies,  ar  J 
to  me  in  particular,"  said  Madame  Evelini  ;  "he  looks 
as  if  he  wished  to  shut  the  door  in  my  face  every  time  i 
come  here." 

''  Yes,  that  is  another  of  his  oddities ;  in  fact,  he  is 
quite  an  unaccountable  lad." 

"  He  is  very  much  attached  to  yau^  at  all  events.  If 
he  were  a  woman,  I  should  say  he  is  in  love  with  yuu, 
h^d  jealous  of  the  rest  of  us,"  said  madame,  laughing, 
'•As  it  is,  it  can  only  be  accounted  for  by  ill-nature  on 
his  part.  Well,  adieu  !"  said  madame,  rising  to  take  her 
leave. 

Louis  soon  had  a  most  convincing  proof  of  the  lad's 
attachment.  Being  detained  one  evening,  by  some  busi- 
ness, in  one  of  the  narrow  courts  inhabited  by  the  lower 
class  in  \'enice,  he  returned  with  a  vie  lent  headache. 
He  grew  worse  so  rapidly,  that  before  night  he  was  in  a 
high  fever,  raving  deliriously. 

A  physician  was  sent  for,  who  pronounced  it  to  be  n 
dangerous  and  most  infectious  fever,  and  advised  hia 
immediate  removal  to  a  hospital,  where  he  might  recei-,  0 
better  attendance  than  he  could  in  his  lodgings,  But 
Isadore  positively  refused  to  have  him  removed,  vehe- 
mently asserting  that  he  himself  was  quite  competent  to 
take  care  of  him. 

And  well  did  he  redeem  his  word.     No  mother  ever 


I 

L' ' 


■y 


i.-; . 


330 


A     STARTLING    DISCOVERY, 


.11 


nursed  her  sick  child  with  more  tender  :are  than  he  did 
Louis.  Nis^ht  and  day  he  was  ever  by  his  side,  bathing 
his  burning  brow,  or  he  ding  a  cooling  draught  to  his 
feverish  lips.  And  though  his  paie  face  grew  paler  day 
after  day,  and  his  lustrous  black  eyes  lost  their  bright- 
ness with  his  weary  vigils,  nothing  could  tempt  him 
fronri  that  sick  room.  Witii  womanly  care,  he  arranged 
the  pillows  beneath  the  restless  head  of  the  invalid  , 
drew  the  curtains  to  exclude  the  glaring  light,  totally 
unheeding  the  danger  of  contagion.  With  jealous 
vigilance,  too,  be  kept  out  all  strangers.  Madame  Eve- 
lini,  upon  liearluL;  of  her  friend's  illness,  immediately 
came  Lo  see  him,  but  she  was  met  in  the  outer  room  by 
Isadore,  who  said,  coldly  : 

"  You  cannot  see  him,  madame  ;  the  physician  has 
forbidden  it." 

"  But  only  for  one  moment.  I  will  not  speak  to  him, 
or  disturb  him,"  pleaded  Madame  Evelini. 

"No;  you  cannot  enter.  It  is  impossible,"  said  Isa- 
dore, as  he  turned  and  left  the  room,  fairly  shutting  the 
door  in  her  face. 

In  his  wild  delirium,  Louis  talked  incessantly  of 
Celeste,  and  urged  her  with  passionate  vehemence  to  fly 
with  him.  At  such  times,  the  dark  brow  of  Isadore 
Kould  knit,  and  his  eyes  flash  with  smoldering  fire 
beneath  their  lids.  But  if  his  own  name  was  mentioned, 
his  beautiful  face  would  light  up  with  such  a  radiant 
look  of  light  and  joy,  that  he  seemed  recompensed  for 
c&ll  his  weary  watching  and  unceasing  care. 

At  length,  a  naturally  strong  constitution,  and  the 
tender  nursing  of  Isadore  triumphed  over  disease,  and 
Louis  became  convalescent.  And  then  he  began  to 
realize  all  he  owed  to  the  boy  who  had  been  his  guardian* 
angel  during  his  illness. 

"How  can  I  ever  repay  you.  Isadore  ?**  he  said,  one 


A     STAR  TLING     DISCO  VE  R  Y. 


33^ 


pan  he  did 
|e,  bathing 
:lH  to  his 
paler  day 
[eir  b  right - 
smpt   him 
arranged 
invalid  , 
It,   totally 
[h    jealous 
amo  Eve- 
I  mediately 
r  room  by 

sician  has 

-ak  to  him, 

said  Isa- 
iutting  the 

ssantly  of 
ence  to  fly 
)f  Isadore 
ering  fire 
mentioned, 
a  radiant 
enscd  for 


I,  and  the 
ease,  and 
began  to 
guardian- 
said,  one 


day,  as  the  youth  hoveicd  by  lis  side,  smoothing  the 
tossed  pillows,  and  arranging  !he  bed-clothes  with  a 
skill  few  nurses  could  have  surpassed. 

**  !  wish  for  no  return,  signer.  I  am  only  oo  happy 
to  have  been  of  service  to  you,"  said  the  boy,  dropping 
his  eyes. 

"Well,  at  least,  you  will  find  I  am  not  ungrateful 
Once  I  am  well,  you  shall  no  longer  remain  a  servant 
I  will  place  you  in  a  fair  way  to  make  your  fortune,' 
said  Louis. 

"  Sigaor,  I  beg  you  will  not  think  of  such  a  thing. 
1  have  no  wish  to  leave  you,"  said  Isadore,  in  alarm. 

"But  with  me  you  will  only  be  an  obscure  servant, 
while  it  is  in  my  power  to  place  you  in  a  situation  to 
become  honored  and  wealthy." 

*'  1  would  rather  remain  with  you." 

"  Strange  boy  !  Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  stay 
with  me  ?" 

"  Because " 

"  Well  r 

"  Because  I  love  you,  Signor,"  said  the  boy,  while 
his  whole  face,  a  moment  before  so  pale,  grew  vivid 
crimson. 

Louis  looked  at  him  in  surpriS.*;. 

"And  what  have  I  done  lor  yoa,  that  you  should 
love  me  so?"  he  asked,  at  length. 

"  Do  we  only  love  those  who  have  conferred  :avor> 
upon  us,  Signor  ?" 

"Well,  genendly  speaking,  among  men  it  is  so.     2 
vou  were  a  woman,  now,  it  would  be  different,"  said 
Louis,  laughing. 

"Would  you  love  me,  if  I  were  a  woman ?"  asked  the 
boy,  in  a  tone  so  abrupt  and  startling  that  Louis  gazed 
at  him  in  wonder, 

*<Not  more  than  I  do  now.     One  cmnnot  Imft  tvo 


f*- 


y 


J 


f '. 


n:' 


533 


^     STAR  FLING    DISCOVERY, 


+  c 


<» 


.11 

J  It' 


ii 


^1} 


a  f  1 


i 


|!i^ 


H  !{!  i 


women  at  a  time,  as  you  will  find  out  when  ycu  g.cw 
older." 

"  Then  the  signer  is  already  in  love  ?'  asked  Isadort? 
raising  his  dark  eyes,  now  filled  with  dusky  fire. 

There  was  no  reply.     Louis  turned  aside  restlessly 
50  ihat  the  boy  could  not  see  the  expression  of  his  face, 
And  Isiidore,  paler  than  before,  seated  himself  in  silence, 
and     fixed    his    burning    black    eyes    steadily    on   the 
ground. 

Louis  now  rapidly  recovered,  and  in  a  short  time 
was  able  to  resume  his  duties.  During  his  first  inter- 
view with  Madame  Evelini,  she  related  the  scene  that 
had  taken  place  between  her  and  Isadore. 

"His  motive  in  keeping  me  out  was  certainly  other 
than  the  physician's  commands,"  she  said.  **  In  fact, 
my  dear  Louis,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  your  Isadore 
should  turn  out  to  be  a  female  in  disguise.  His  conduct 
savors  so  strongly  of  jealousy  that  I  more  thciri  half  sus- 
pect him.  Some  fiery  Italian  might  have  t/vinceived  a 
romantic  passion  for  you,  and  *aken  this  means  of  fol- 
lowing you.  Those  hot-blooded  Venetians  will  do  such 
things  sometimes." 

The  words  were  lightly  spoken,  but  they  set  Louis  to 
thinking.  What  if  they  were  true?  A  number  of 
Uimgs,  trifling  in  themselves,  rushed  on  his  mind,  tend- 
ing to  confirm  this  opinion.  He  started  up,  seized  his 
iat,  bade  madame  a  hasty  farewell,  and  started  for  home, 
fully  resolved  to  discover  immediately  whether  or  not 
her  words  were  true. 

On  entering,  he  found  Isadore  standing  with  folded 
arms,  gazing  with  eyes  almost  fiendish  with  hate  upon  a 
picture  on  the  easel.  It  was  the  portrait  of  Celeste  as  a 
child,  standing  as  when  he  first  beheld  her  caressing  her 
wounded  bird.  No  words  can  describe  the  look  of  fiercQ 
hutred  with  which  the  boy  res:arded  X. 


A     STARTLING    DISCO  VJIRY 


rcXX  g.cw 

Isadort? 

[restlessly 

his  face, 

in  silence, 

OP    tlio 

[hort  time 

irst  inier- 

jcene  that 

inly  other 

In  fact, 

ir  Isadore 

s  conduct 

half  sua- 

nceived  u 

ins  of  foi- 

il  do  such 

:  Louis  to 
Limber  of 
ind,  tend- 
seized  his 
for  home, 
er  or  not 

h  folded 
e  upon  a 
'tJste  as  a 
Jsing  her 
of  fierco 


"Well,  Isadore,  you  seem  struck  by  that  painting 
Did  you  ever  see  a  sweeter  face?"  asked  Louis,  pointir^g 
to  Celeste,  but  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  the  face 
of  the  boy. 

"  Do  you  love  her  ?"  asked  Itadore,  homrselj,  without 
looking  lip. 

"  uTes,  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul !"  replied  Louis 
xeryently. 

"  Ungrateful  wretch  !"  cried  the  youth,  in  a  voice  of 
intense  passion  ;  and  lifting  his  head,  he  disclosed  a  face 
so  p)ale,  and  eyes  so  full  of  fire,  that  Louis  started  back. 
"  Was  it  for  this  that  I  left  home,  and  country,  and 
friends,  that  I  assumed  a  disguise  like  this  to  follow  you  ? 
Was  it  for  such  a  turn  as  this  I  risked  my  life  for  yours? 
Was  it  for  words  like  these  I  cast  aside  my  pride,  and 
became  your  menial  ?  Was  it  not  enough  for  you  to  call 
on  her  unceasingly  during  your  delirium — she  who 
feared  the  opinion  of  the  world  more  than  she  loved  you 
— while  I,  who  braved  disgrace  and  death  for  your  sake, 
was  unnamed  and  forgotten  ?  Look  on  me,  most  un- 
grateful of  men,"  he  continued,  almost  with  a  shriek. 
"Look  at  me ;  and  say,  do  you  yet  know  me?" 

He  dashed  his  cap  to  the  ground,  and  with  features 
convulsed  with  contending  passioiis,  stood  before  him. 
Louis  looked,  turned  deadly  pale,  and  exclaimed,  in  a 
foice  of  utter  surprise  : 

*'  Merciful  heaven  '  Minnette !" 


:f 


i 


h 

I . 

*  i  i 


(* ' 
f 


i  < 


ji  1 


i 


n 


'■'1 


Si4 


LIGHT    /,V     DARKNESS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

LIGHT    IN    DARKNESS. 

**  By  the  strong  spirit's  disripHna— 
By  the  fierce  wuing  forgiven — 
By  all  that  wrings  tlie  heart  of  sin, 
Is  woman  won  to  Heaven." — WlUJt 

HERE  was  a  inoiiicnt's  profound  sileuc«, 
diirinj^  wiiich  Louis  stood  like  one  thunder- 
sliuciv,  and  Minnette  glared  upon  him  with 
her  fierce  black  eyes. 

"And  you  have  been  with  me  all  this  time, 
Minnette,  and  I  knew  it  not,"  said  Louis,  at  length. 

*'  No,"  she  said,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  You  did  not 
know  me.  Had  it  been  Celeste,  do  you  think  you  would 
have  recognized  her  ?" 

"  Minnette,  do  not  look  so  wildly.  Good  heaven  ! 
who  would  ever  think  of  seeing  you  here,  and  in  such 
disguise?"  lie  added,  still  scarcely  able  to  realize  it  was 
Minnette  who  stood  before  him. 

"And  it  was  for  your  sake,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice 
almost  choked  by  contending  emotions. 

"For  me,  for  me  !  wretch  that  I  am  !"  he  said,  will; 
bitter  remorse.  "Oh,  Minnette!  I  am  unworthy  suci. 
devoted  love." 

Something  in  his  manner  inspired  her  with  hope 
She  clasped  her  hands,  and  said,  wildly  : 

"  Only  say  you  will  not  cast  me  off.  Only  say  you 
will  yet  love  me,  and  I  will  be  a  thousand-fold  repaid 
for  all  I  have  endured  for  your  sake.  (Jh,  Louis  !  is  it  for 
the  cold,  prudish  Celeste  you  reject  such  love  as  mine?** 

^We  cannot  compel   our  affections,  Minnette.     Ce^ 


LIGHT    IN    DARKNESS, 


1  sileixe, 
;  thunder- 
liim  with 

this  time, 
Eigth. 

ju  did  not 
rou  would 

I  heaven  \ 
d  in  such 
ize  it  was 

n  a  voice 

said,  i?itl; 
thy  suci: 

ith   hope 

r  &ay  you 
(i  repaid 
!  is  it  for 
J  mine?" 
tte.    Ce- 


335 


icstft  is  ilic  only  wuinaii  vvlio  can  ever  possess  my  heart ; 
but  you—  you  shall  alvvnys  be  to  me  as  a  dear  sis»cr. 
Vou  must  thnr.v  oil  this  disguise,  and  return  with  tne 
aome  immediately.  Vour  friends  shall  never  l<novv  of 
ibis — tiiey  do  not  dream  you  are  liere;  and  you  will  soon 
earn  to  look  back  to  this  time  as  a  troubled  dream,  liap- 
j>  -y  past." 

"  [la,  ha,  ha  !  Vou  might  take  me  back  to  America 
that  1  might  witness  your  marriage  with  CcicsLe.  No^ 
Louis  Oranmore,  never  shall  ^he  enjoy  sucii  a  triumph  ! 
I  have  hated  her  all  my  life  ;  and  I  shall  hate  her  with 
my  last  breath.  Do  you  think  1  could  live  and  survive 
this  disgrace  ?  Vou  have  driven  me  to  madness  ;  and  now 
behold  its  fruits." 

Her  voice  was  hoarse  with  concentrated  passion  ;  txcx 
eyes  burning  like  fire  ;  her  face  ghastly  and  livid.  As 
she  spoke,  she  drew  from  within  the  doublet  she  wore  a 
gleaming  dagger.  As  the  quick  eye  of  Louis  saw  the 
motion,  he  sprang  forward  and  seized  her  by  the  wrist. 
She  struggled  madly  to  free  herself  from  his  grasp  ;  and 
in  the  struggle  the  point  of  the  dagger  entered  her  t/'e. 

A  torrent  of  blood  flowed  over  his  hands.  Sl.riek 
after  shriek  of  mortal  agony  broke  from  the  lips  of 
Minnette  The  fatal  dagger  dropped  from  the  hand  of 
Louis — he  iilaggcred  back,  and  stood  for  a  moment  par- 
alyzed with  horror.  Mad  with  agony,  Minnette  fled 
<ound  the  room,  the  blood  gushing  from  her  sightless 
eye  and  covering  her  face,  l\er  agonizing  screams  making 
the  house  resound.  It  wa*:  an  awful,  ghastly,  aopalling 
spectacle.  Louis  stood  rooted  to  the  ground,  u.aable  to 
remove  his  gaze  from  the  terrible  sight. 

Her  piercing  shrieks  soon  filled  the  room.  Among 
the  crowd  came  Lugari,  who  instantly  guessed  what  had 
happened.  A  surgeon  was  sent  for,  and  poor  Minnette, 
itruggling  madly,  was  Dome  to  her  room  and  laid  up«B 


:i 


4\ 


H 


It 


.M,f    if. 


! 


it  •  ■ 


v- 


[r-il-V  ;'j  ^^ 


•/''•: 

J' 


>-1 


■I 


m  « 


M 


I' ; 


if 
if 


J36 


LIGHT    IN    DARKNESS. 


her  bed.  The  surgeon, an  Englishmnn,  at  length  arrived: 
and  Louis,  at  last  restored  to  presence  of  m'nd,  speedily 
expelled  the  gaping  crowd,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  own 
room,  unable  to  endure  the  harrowing  sight  of  Min- 
nette's  agony.  For  upwards  of  two  hours  he  tiDdup 
and  down,  almost  maddened  by  the  recollection  of  the 
dreadful  scene  just  past.  Bitter,  indeed,  was  his  angiiisl, 
and  remorse  ;  in  those  two  hours  seemed  concentrated 
ages  of  suffering. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  footsteps  announced  that  chc 
physician  was  about  to  take  his  leave.  Hurriedly  leav- 
ing the  room,  Louis  followed  him,  scarcely  daring  to  ask 
the  question  that  hovered  upon  his  lips. 

"Tell  me  !"  he  exclaimed,  vehemently,  "is  she — will 
she " 

"  No,  she  will  not  die,"  replied  the  doctor,  who  knew 
what  he  would  ask.  "  The  wound  is  dangerous,  but  not 
mortsl  She  must  be  taken  care  of.  I  will  have  her  im- 
mediately removed  from  here." 

"  Then  she  will  recover !"  said  Louis,  fervently, 
*^ Thank  God!" 

"  Yes,  she  will  recover,"  said  the  doctor,  hesitating- 
ly, "  but " 

"  But  what  ?"  exclaimed  Louis,  in  vague  alarm. 

"  She  will  be  blind  for  lifer 

"  Great  heaven  !" 

"  Her  right  eye  is  already  gone,  and  the  other,  I  fear, 
will  never  more  see  the  light.  Still,  you  should  be 
grateful  that  her  life  will  be  preserved."  And  the  sur- 
geon took  his  hat  and  left. 

"  Blind  !  blind  for  life  !"  murmured  Louis,  in  horror  : 
"  a  £ate  "vorse  than  death.    Oh,  Minnette  !  Minnette  I" 


UGBT   W   DAJtftlTMSS, 


SIT 


■I  ' 


rth  arrived 

Id,  speedily 
in  his  own 
H  of  Min- 
'  he  ti  Dd  up 
[ion  of  the 
lis  anguisl 
)ncentrate(d 

ed  fhat  the 
riedly  leav- 
iring  to  ask 

is  she— win 

who  knew 
5US,  but  not 
lave  her  im- 

,   fervently, 

hesitating* 

larm. 


her,  I  fear, 

should  be 

id  the  sur- 

in  hoiror  • 
inette  t" 


The  lingering  glory  of  an  Italian  sunset  wai  stream*- 
ing  through  the  open  window  of  the  room  where  Min- 
nctte  lay.  It  was  a  plainly,  but  neatly  furnished  room, 
in  one  of  the  Scuole^  or  benevolent  institatians  of  the 
city.  Two  months  had  passed  since  that  unhappy  day 
on  which  we  saw  her  last.  She  lies  now  on  the  bed,  the 
Kunlight  falling  brightly  on  her  wan  face  ;  that  blessed 
sunlight  she  will  never  see  more.  A  Sister  of  Mercy, 
with  holy  face  and  meek  eyes,  sits  by  her  side,  holding 
one  of  her  hands  in  hers. 

And  this  is  Minnette  ;  this  pale,  faded,  sightless  girl, 
the  once  beautiful,  haughty,  resplendent  Minnette  !  All 
her  beauty  was  gone  now  ;  the  glowing  crimson  of  high 
health  rests  no  longer  on  those  hollow,  sunken  cheeks  ; 
the  fierce  light  of  passion  will  never  more  flash  from 
those  dimmed  orbs  ;  from  those  poor,  pale  lips,  bitter, 
scathing  words  can  never  more  fall.  But  through  ail 
this  outward  wreck  shines  a  calmer,  holier  beauty  than 
ever  rested  on  her  face  before.  !n  the  furnace,  she  has 
been  purified  ;  the  fierce,  passionate  spirit  has  been  sub- 
dued by  grace  ;  the  lion  in  her  nature  has  yielded  to  the 
Lamb  that  was  slain  ;  the  wrung,  agonized  heart  has 
ceased  to  struggle,  and  rests  in  peace  at  last. 

Not  without  many  a  struggle  had  her  wild,  fierce 
nature  yielded  to  the  soothings  of  religion.  Long, 
tempestuous,  and  passionate  was  the  struggle  ;  and 
when  her  good  angel  triumphed  at  last  she  came,  not  aa 
a  meek  penitent,  but  as  a  worn,  world-weary  sinner, 
longing  only  for  peace  and  rest. 

She  had  not  seen  Louis  during  her  illness.  Often  he 
came  to  visit  her,  but  still  her  cry  was  :  *'  Not  yet  I  not 
yet !"  Her  wild,  mad  love  was  dying  out  of  her  heart, 
and  with  it  her  intense  hatred  of  Celeste.  Her  dj»yt 
now,  were  spent  in  meditation  and  prayer,  or  listening 
t«  the  gentle,  soothing  words  of  Sister  Beatrice 


■■(>'■ 


;    i 


t' 


¥, 


•4      ,t; 


^     ■      ■ 


"  *«  -.  ■ 


^S  Ui 


■((I 


338 


LIGHT     IN     DARKNESS, 


•'The  SUD  is  setting,  sistf-r,  is  it  not  ?"  she  asked,  tjin- 
ing  her  head  towards  the  windows,  as  though  she  still 
coo  Id  see. 

•*  Yes  ;  a  more  glorio-us  sunset  I  never  beheld." 

"And  I  can  never  see  it  more;  never  behold  the 
beautiful  earth  or  sky  ;  never  see  sun,  or  moon,  or  stars 
again  !"  said  Minnette.,  in  a  V(jice  icjw,  but  unspeakabljf 
sad. 

**  No,  ray  ciiild,  but  there  is  an  inward  vision  that  can 
never  be  seen  with  corporeal  eyes.  Now  that  those  out- 
ward eyes  are  sealed  forever,  a  glimpse  of  heaven  has 
been  bestowed  upon  you,  to  lighten  the  darkness  of  your 
life  " 

"  Oh  !  Sister  Beatrice,  if  I  were  always  with  you,  I 
feel  I  could  submit  to  my  fate  withoat  a  murmur.  But 
when  I  go  out  into  the  world,  this  fierce  nature  that  is 
within  me.  that  is  subdued  but  not  conquered,  will  again 
arise ;  and  I  will  become  more  passionate,  selfish,  and 
sinful  than  ever." 

"Then  why  go  out  into  the  world  any  more?  Why 
not  enter  a  convent,  and  end  your  days  in  peace  ?" 

"  Oh,  sister  !  if  I  only  might,"  said  Minnette,  clasp 
log  her  hands  ;  "  but  1,  poor,  blind,  and  helpless,  what 
could  I  do  in  a  convent  ?" 

"  You  could  pray,  you  could  be  happy ;  if  you  wish 
to  enter  your  blindness  shall  be  no  obstacle,"  said  Sister 
Beatrice. 

At  thiS  moment  a  servant  entered  and  handed  the 
sister  a  note,  addressed  to  Minnette.  She  opened  it, 
and  read  aloud  : 

"  Every  day  for  a  month  I  have  called  here,  and  you 
have  refused  to  see  me.  Minnette,  I  conjure  you  to  let 
me  visit  you  ;  I  cannot  rest  until  !  have  seen  you,  and 
obtained  your  forgiveness.  Louis.*' 


LIGHT    IN    DARKNESS. 


S3f 


Lsked^tjin. 
^h  she  still 

leld." 

behold  the 
jon,  or  stars 

nspeakabljf 

ion  that  can 
t  those  out- 
heaven  has 
nessof  your 

with  you,  I 
rmur.  But 
ture  that  is 
[,  will  again 
selfish,  and 

lore?    Why 
ace  ?" 

nette,  clasp- 
ipless,  what 

f  you  wish 
'  said  Sister 

handed  the 
opened  it, 


:e,  and  you 
!  you  to  let 
n  you,  and 
Louift." 


Minnette's  pale  face  flush  jd  deep  cikiison,  and  then 
grew  whiter  than  bel'oic,  as  she  said,  vehemently  : 

**  No,  I  will  iiol  !  I  will  nut  !   I  cannot  see  liim  more  !" 

"Why  not?"  said  Sister  Beatrice.  "Confess,  my 
child,  tliat  vanity  still  lingers  in  your  heart.  You  do 
not  wish  to  see  him  because  you  think  he  will  be 
shocked  to  find  you  so  changed  and  altered.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  replied  Minnette,  in  a  fainting  voice. 

"But  tiiis  is  wrong  ;  you  ought  to  see  him.  As  you 
are  desirous  of  taking  the  vail,  it  is  but  right  that  you 
should  see  him,  and  bid  him  farewell,  and  let  him  inform 
your  friends  when  he  sees  them.  Come,  my  dear  child, 
cast  out  this  spirit  of  pride,  and  let  me  admit  him,  if 
only  for  a  moment." 

There  was  a  fierce  struggle  in  the  breast  of  Minnette. 
It  was  but  momentary,  however,  as,  shading  her  face  with 
one  hand,  she  said  : 

**  Be  it  so  ;  I  will  endure  the  humiliation ;  let  him 
come." 

Sister  Beatrice  pressed  her  lips  to  the  brow  of  the  in- 
valid, and  left  the  room.  A  moment  later,  and  Louis, 
pale,  thin,  and  careworn,  entered.  He  started,  and  grew 
a  shade  paler,  as  his  eyes  fell  on  that  poor,  pale  face, 
robbed  of  all  its  beauty,  and  with  a  suppressed  groan, 
sank  on  his  knees  by  the  bedside. 

"Minnette!  Minnette!"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "Can 
you  ever  forgive  me  ?" 

The  sightless  eyes  v;ere  turned  toward  him,  in  the 
vain  effort  to  see.  Alas  !  All  was  darkness.  She  held 
out  one  little,  transparent  hand,  which  he  took  between 
both  of  his. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  said,  meekly.  "  All 
that  has  happened  to  me  I  deserved.     Do  not  grieve  for 


'I 


!ii  'i:; 'r 


%, 


'Um, 


J  ■• 


:    ( 


^^'  .& 


.1*1  t 

J' 


'?!  t# 


11 


^ 


!f 


S4« 


Z/C-^r    /AT    VAJRKNMSS, 


me,  Louis,  you  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with, 
it  was  all  my  own  fault." 

He  bowed  his  forehead  on  her  hand,  and  tears,  that 
did  honor  to  his  generous  heart,  fell  from  his  eyes. 

"  Tell  Celeste,  when  you  see  her,  how  sorry  I  am  for 
aU  my  cruelty  and  injustice  toward  her.  Ask  her  to  for- 
give me  ;  she  is  good  and  gentle,  I  feel  she  will  do  it. 
if  I  only  had  her  pardon,  I  feel  I  could  die  content 
And,  Oh  Louis  !  when  she  is  happy  with  you,  will  you 
both  sometimes  think  of  Minnette,  blind,  and  alone  in  a 
foreifT:n  land  ?" 

"  O\\,poor  Minnette  !"  he  said,  in  a  choking  voice. 

"  Do  not  pity  me,  Louis  ;  I  am  very  happy,"  but  the 
pale  lips  trembled  as  she  spoke  ;  "  happier  than  I  ever 
was  when  I  was  full  of  life  and  health.  Oh,  Louis, 
when  I  look  back  and  think  of  what  I  have  been — so 
selfish,  and  hard-hearted,  and  cruel — I  tremble  to  think 
what  I  might  yet  have  been  if  God  in  his  uiercy  had  not 
sent  me  this  affliction.  And  Celeste  ;  no  words  can  ever 
tell  how  I  have  wronged  her.  Vou  know  how  I  struck 
her,  in  my  blind  rage,  and  the  angelic  patience  and  for- 
giveness with  which  she  afterward  sought  to  love  me, 
and  make  me  happy.  Oh,  Louis  !  all  her  sweetness  and 
meekness  will  haunt  me  to  my  dying  day." 

Her  voire  faltered,  then  entirely  failed,  and  for  the 
fcrst  time  in  her  life  the  once  haughty  Minnette  wept. 

**  Tears  are  strange  visitors  to  these  eyes,"  she  said, 
with  a  sad  smile  ;  "there  may  be  hope  for  me  yet,  since 
I  can  weep  for  the  past.  Louis,  in  a  few  weeks  I  will 
enter  a  convent,  and  the  remainder  of  my  life  shall  be 
spent  in  praying  for  you  and  Celeste,  and  the  rest  of  my 
friends.  And  now  you  must  leave  me — farewell,  a  last 
farewell,  dear  Louis.  Tell  them  all  at  home  how  I  have 
learned  to  love  them  at  last,  and  ask  them  to  fcrg ive 
poor  Minnette." 


11 


.'  «■" 


jif  with . 

^ars,  that 

res. 

I  am  for 
|er  to  for- 

^ill  do  it. 
content 

will  you 
jilone  in  a 

voice. 

"  but  the 
lan  I  ever 
)h,  Louis, 

been — so 

to  think 
:y  had  not 
Is  can  ever 
w  I  struck 
B  and  for- 
)  love  rae, 
stness  and 

id  for  the 
J  wept. 

she  said, 
yet,  since 
eks  I  will 

shall  be 
est  of  my 
ell,  a  last 
:>w  I  have 
o  fcrg ive 


TIf£    DEATH- 3 ED    CONFESSION.        S4> 

He  could  not  speak  ;  she  made  a  sign  fc"  him  to  go. 
Raising  the  thin,  pale  hand  to  his  lips,  and  casting  one 
lonj;,  last  look  on  the  sad,  yet  peaceful  face  dtf  the  once 
bej.utiful  M lunette,  he  quitted  the  room.  And  thus  they 
parted,  these  two,  never  to  meet  in  life  again. 

Meantime,  we  must  revisit  St.  Mark's,  and  witness 
the  startling  events  that  are  bringing  matters  to  a  rapid 
denouement  there. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   DEATH-BED   CONFESSION. 

'*  Her  wretched  brain  gave  way, 
Aad  she  became  a  wreck,  at  random  drirett. 
Without  one  glimpse  of  rersou  or  of  Heaven.** 

|T  was  a  bleak,  stormy  December  eveninf^,  a 
week  before  Christmas.  A  bright  fire  wai 
burning  in  the  well-known  parlor  of  Sunset 
Hall. 

In  his  easy-chair,  with  his  gouty  legs, 
swathed  in  flannels,  reposing  on  two  others,  lay  our  old 
friend  the  squire,  literally  **  laid  up  by  the  legs."  lathe 
opposite 'Corner  was  Lizzie,  dozing,  as  usual,  on  her  sofa; 
A'hile  good  Mrs.  Gower  sat  with  her  fat  hands  folded  in 
her  lap,  reposing  after  the  cares  of  the  day.  Dr.  Wise- 
man had  not  yet  sufiiciently  recovered  from  his  wounds 
and  bruises  to  go  abroad,  and  had  just  retired  to  his 
room,  while  hii  affectionate  spouse  was  enjoying  herself 
at  a  grand  ball  in  the  villa[;e. 

The  worthy  trio  had  sat  in  solemn  silence  for  upwards 


.'v   ■' 

■  )v 


i 


342        TWiS:    DEATH-BED     CONI ESSION. 

of  an  hour,  wlien  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  Jupitei 
rished  in  to  announce  "dat  a  boy  cooimanded  to  sec 
oie  marster  'mediately." 

"To  see  me?"  said  the  sq  lire,  in  amazement 
*•  What  does  he  want  ?     I  won't  see  an^  body  to-night." 

"  He's  got  a  letter,  and  says  he  must  d'liver  it  to-night 
— it's  very  important,"  said  Jupiter. 

"Humph  !  well,  admit  him  tlien.  I  never  can  get  a 
minute's  peace.  '  No  rest  for  the  wicked,'  as  Solomon 
says.     Well,  here  h\?  comes." 

As  he  spoke,  a  j^outh,  apparently  about  sixteen,  en- 
tered the  apartment,  bearing  every  evidence  of  having 
journeyed  fast. 

"  You  are  Squire  Erliston,  I  believe,"  said  the  lad. 
bowing  respectfully. 

"  Well,  you  may  believe  it,"  said  the  squire,  testily  ; 
"  it's  a  name  I  was  never  ashamed  of.  What  do  you  want 
of  me  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  young  man  ?" 

**  I  have  been  sent  with  this  letter,"  said  the  boy,  pro* 
senting  one  ;  "  it's  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

"  Matter  of  life  and  death  !  Lord  bless  me  !"  ex- 
claimed the  astonished  squire,  *'  what  can  it  mean  ? 
Hand  me  my  spectacles,  Mrs.  Goucr,  and  put  them  on 
my  nose,  till  I  overhaul  this  document.  Maybe  it  con- 
tains state-treason,  a  gunpowder  plot  or  something. 
*  The  pen  is  mightier  tlian  the  sword,'  as  Solomon  says  ; 
though  I'll  be  shot  if  I  believe  it.  Solomon  didn't  know 
much  about  swords,  and  acted  queer  sometimes — didn't 
behave  well  to  his  wife,  th^y  say.  Humph  !  well,  here 
goes." 

So  saying,  the  squire  opened  the  letter  and  began  t.o 
r«ad.  And  as  he  read,  his  eyes  began  to  protrude,  till 
they  threatened  to  shoot  from  his  head  alf ogetbcr.  THf 
letter  ran  as  follows  : 


Jupitei 
Id  to  sefi 

lazemeDt, 

-night." 

'  to-night 

|an  get  a 
|Solomon 

teen,  en- 
)f  having 

the  lad. 

testily ; 
you  want 

boy,  pro- 


me 


ex- 


t  mean  ? 
them  on 
e  it  con- 
•  mething. 
ion  says  ; 
n't  know 
s — didn't 
ell,   here 

3egan  to 
ude,  til] 
cr.    TKf 


TII£    DEATH-BED     CONFESSION,       34$ 

"Magnus  Erliston  :  Come  to  me  immediately — am 
dying.  I  have  something  to  tell  you  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance, and  I  cannot  die  with  it  on  my  conscience. 
Above  all  things,  di)  not,  for  your  life,  breathe  a  word  of 
this  to  Dr.  Wiseman.  Come  instantly,  or  you  may  re- 
pent it.  Madge  Oranmore." 

"  Now,  what  in  the  name  of  Beelzf  bub  does  the 
woman  mean  ?"  exclaimed  the  squire,  as  he  finished 
reading  this.  "  How  does  she  expect  a  man  to  turn  out 
on  a  December  night,  with  the  gout  in  his  legs?  I  say, 
youngster,  do  you  know  who  sent  you  with  this  precious 
letter  ?" 

"Yes,  sir  ;  my  mistress,  Mrs.  Oranmore." 
"  And  what's  the  matter  with  her,  may  I  ask  >" 
"  She  has  been  ailing  for  some  time  ;  and  a  week  ago, 
her  illness  took  a  dangerous  turn.  The  doctors  say  she 
has  but  few  days  to  live,  and  she  seems  to  be  anxious 
about  some  secret  that  preys  on  her  mind.  I  have  not 
rested  day  or  night  since  I  started  fcr  this  place.  I  fear 
she  will  not  live  until  I  get  back,  unless  you  make 
haste." 

"  I  know  not  what  to  do,"  said  the  squire,  evidently 
appalled.  "  I'd  like  to  ses  the  old  lady  before  she  leaves 
this  *  vale  of  tears,*  as  Solomon  says,  but  how  the  mis- 
chief I'm  to  go,  I  can't  tell.  If  she  could  only  put  off 
dying  for  a  month  or  two,  now,  I'd  go  with  pleasure, 
but  I  suppose  she  can't  conveniently  'Time  and  tide 
wait  for  no  man,'  as  Solonr.on  says.  I  mustn't  tell  old 
Wiseman,  either,  it  seems — hum-m-m  !  'Pon  mv  I'fc,  I 
don't  know  what  to  say  about  it." 

All  this  was  muttered  in  a  sort  of  soliloquy  ;  and  as 
he  ceased,  the  merry  jingle  of  bells  approaching  the 
house    saluted    his    ears.     The    next    momenti    Gipfj, 


(' 


■       \ 


S 


,   1 


0" 


A 


fu' 


■    { 


H  ■ 


pi 

'it, 


f 


344        TJfM    DEATH  BED    CONFESSJOJf. 

wrapped  up  in  shawls,  and  hoods,  and  furs,  fresh  and 
bright  AS  a  daisy,  danced  into  the  rcom,  exclaiming  : 

"  Here  I  am.  good  folks  !  The  ball  was  a  horrid 
stupid  affair,  without  a  bit  of  tun,  so  I  thought  I'd  come 
home."  Hen.,,  catching  sight  of  the  stranger,  Gipsy 
favored  him  with  a  stare  of  surprise,  and  was  about  to 
leave  the  room,  when  the  squire  called  : 

''  Come  back  here,  monkey  ;  I'm  in  a  confoundeo 
scrape,  and  I  want     ou  to  help  mc  out  of  it.'' 

'  All  right  ;  just  hint  what  it  ir    will  you  ?  and  I'll 
have  you  out  of  it  in  a  iwinkiing." 

"Read  that/'  said  the  squire,  placing  the  mysterious 
better  in  her  hand. 

Gipsy  read  it,  and  then  exclaimed  : 

"  Well,  there's  some  mystery  here — that's  ctrtain, 
But  you  can't  go,  can  you,  Guardy?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  can't.  You  might  as  well  expect  Mrs. 
Gower,  there,  to  dance  the  double  shuffle,  as  expect  me 
to  go  on  such  a  journe3^" 

"Well,  Spider's  not  to  know  of  it,  and  he  couldn't 
go  if  he  did,  with  his  dilapi  .ated  continuations  ;  Aunty 
Liz  can't  travel  and  lie  asleep  on  a  sofa  at  the  same  time  ; 
and  Aunty  Gower,  poor  woiiiaii  !  can't  travex  up  stairs, 
under  half  an  hour's  panting  and  groaning  ;  so  i^one  of 
them  can  go,  t/iafs  demonstrated — as  old  Mr.  Black- 
board used  to  say.     Eh  !  Guardy  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes.     But  what's  to  be  donf,  I" 

"  Why,  it's  very  clear  what's  to  be  dene.     Fll  go  I" 

"  You"  said  the  squire,  with  a  stare.  "  What  good  ciUB 
you  do  ?" 

*  Come,  now  !  I  like  that !  I'll  leave  it  to  every- 
body, if  I'm  not  worth  the  whole  of  you  put  together. 
Air't  I,  now  ?" 

"Mrs.  Oraumore  won't  tcMyou  her  secret.' 

"  Well,  if  she  doc'>^    she'll    lose  the  wisest,  :2ici«K 


^^'•^fcui 


fresh  and 
[ming : 

a  horrid 

I'd  come 

fr,    Gipaj 

about  to 

nfoundeo 
and  I'll 

lysterioua 

s  ccrtaio, 

pect  Mrs. 
!xpect  me 

couldn't 
s  ;  Aunty 
imetimr ; 
up  stairs, 
3  I^o^e  of 
r.  Black- 


Vgo! 
^ood 


o  everjr- 
ogether. 


t,  .aUDett 


TS£    DEATH-BED    CONFESSION,       J45 

xensibUst  cor.fidrinte  ever  anybody  had,  though  I  say  it 
Any  way,  I'll  try  ;  and  if  she  won't  tell,  why,  she'll  have 
to  leave  ir.  alone — that's  all.  Wiien  do  you  start  ?"  she 
asked,  tui  ninj^  to  the  youth. 

"  Now,  if  )'ou're  roudy,"  replied  the  lad. 

"  Yes,  I'm  ready.    IIow  did  you  come  ?  by  the  stage?" 

"  No,  in  a  sleigli — it's  at  tlie  door." 
Well,  then,   I   won't   detain   you.     Good-bye  for  a 
v/eek,  Guardy  ;  good-bye,  Aunty  Gower.     Off  we  go!" 

"  Hadn't  you  better  stay  till  morning,"  said  Mrs. 
Gower,  anxiously.  "  It  is  too  cold  and  stormy  to  travel 
by  nir^ht." 

"  And  in  the  meantime  this  old  lady  may  give  up  the 
ghost.  No ;  there's  no  time  to  lose ;  and  besides,  I 
rather  like  the  idea  of  a  journey,  to  vary  the  monotony 
of  St.  Mark's,  Good-bye  all — I  leave  you  my  blessing,'' 
said  Gipsy,  with  a  partr.ii^  tiourish,  as  she  left  the  room 
and  took  her  place  by  the  side  of  the  boy  in  the  sleigh. 
Nothing  remarkable  occurred  on  the  jt>urney.  Gipsy, 
comfortably  nestled  under  the  buffalo  robes,  scarcely  felt 
the  cold.  The  next  morning  they  halted  at  a  wayside 
inn  to  take  breakfast,  and  then  dashed  off  again. 

Owing  to  the  state  of  the  roads  it  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  they  reached  the  city  ;  and  almost  dark 
when  Gipsy,  preceded  by  her  companion,  entered  the 
gloomy  home  of  Mrs.  Gran  more. 

"  My  stars  !  what  a  dismal  old  tomb,  k  realiy  smells 
of  ghosts  and  rats,  and  I  sliould  not  wonder  if  it  was 
teniinted  by  both,"  was  Gipsy's  internal  comment  as  she 
passed  up  the  long,  dark  staircase,  and  longer,  darker 
hall,  and  entered  the  sick-room  of  Mrs.  Oranmore — the 
longest  and  darkest  of  all.  Si  retched  on  a  hearse-like 
bed — stiff,  stark,  and  rigid,  as  though  she  were  already 
d«ad-  -lay  Madge  Orinmoire — her  face  looking  likesomt 


f 

i 


^^r 


I'-  ;':Ui 


if 


^^ 


Si: 


.Jit.    ' 


'.*■' 
'  t 
i 


f 


,i:  '  ^  ■ 


I:  ■  ^ 


•  vl 


1  r 


346        r^^    DEATH  BUD     CONFESSION, 

grim,  sreni  mask  carved  in  iron  An  old  woman,  whom 
the  boy  addressed  as  "  mother,"  sat  oy  her  side. 

The  invalid  started  quickly  at  the  scund  of  thsi: 
footsteps  ;  and  seeing  the  boy,  exclaimed,  in  a  faint,  yd 
eaqer  and  imperious  tone  : 

"  Has  he  come  ?" 

"No;  he  is  ill,  and  could  not  come,"  said  Gipsy, 
stepping  forward.  "  lie  is  unable  to  walk,  so  I  have 
come  in  his  siead." 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  demanded  Mrs.  Oranmore,  sharply 

"Well,  really,  I'd  be  obliged  to  anybody  who  would 
^ell  me — at  present,  it's  more  than  I  know.  I  used  to 
..hink  I  ^"as  Gipsy  Gower — Squire  Erliston's  ward;  but, 
of  late,  I've  found  out  1  don't  behjng  to  anybody  in  par- 
ticular. 1  was  picked  up,  one  nigiit,  as  if  I  had  been  a 
piece  of  drift-wood ;  and  I  expect,  like  Venus,  I  rose 
from  the  sea." 

**  Girl,  have  you  come  here  to  mock  me?"  exclaimed 
Dame  Oranmore,  fiercely. 

"The  saints  forbid  !  I'm  telling  you  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  I  was  picked 
up  one  Christmas  eve,  nineteen  years  ago,  on  the  beach, 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  here  ;  and — good  Heaven  ! 
what's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  springing 
back. 

With  the  shriek  of  a  dying  panther,  Mrs.  Oranmore 
sprung  up  in  her  bed,  with  her  eyes  starting  from  their 
sockets,  as  she  fairly  screamed  : 

"  What  !  Heaven  of  heavens !  did  he  not  drowB 
you  ?" 

"  Why,  no ;  \  ratner  think  not — at  least,  if  I  ever  wai 
drowned,  I  have  no  recoi  cation  of  it.  But,  my  good- 
ness !  don't  glare  at  me  so — yo:iVe  absolutely  hideout 
enough  to  make  every  hair  on  a  body's  head  stand  per- 
pendicular, with  those  :yes  of  yours." 


!i 


Lo,  whom 

of   th«i; 
Ifaint,  jrct 


d  Gipsy, 
po  I  have 

|,  sharply 
o  would 
used  to 
ard ;  but, 
ly  in  par- 
id  been  a 
IS,  I  rose 

xclaimed 

ruth,  the 
IS  picked 
he  beach, 
Heaven ! 
springing 

>ranmore 
om  their 

>t  drowa 

ever  wai 
ly  good- 
'  hideoui 
tand  per' 


THE    DEATH  BED     CONFESSION.        347 

"  How  were  you  saved  ?"  Answer  me  that  I  How 
were  you  saved?"  {iL(;iin  screamed  the  excited  woman. 

"Well,  1  don't  recollect  much  a!)out  it  myself;  but 
Mrs.  Gower  told  me,  the  otlicr  day,  that  she  found  me 
rolled  up  in  a  shawl,  on  the  beach  like  an  Esquimaux 
papoose  asleep  in  a  snow-bank.  I  liaven't  any  notion 
who  the  *  he'  is  you  speak  of ;  but  if  '  he'  left  me  there  to 
turn  into  an  icicle,  1  only  wish  I  could  see  him,  and  tell 
him  a  piece  of  my  mind — that's  all." 

''And  this  was  Christinas  eve,  nineteen  years  ago?" 
exclaimed  Madge  Oranmore,  breathlessly. 

'•  Yes." 

"Great  Heaven  !  how  just  is  tli)^  retribution  !  And 
nt  last,  in  my  dying  hour,  1  behold  before  mc  the  child  of 
Esther  Erliston  and  Alfred  Uranmore  !"  exclaimed  the 
dying  woman,  falling  back  on  her  pillow,  and  clasping 
her  hands. 

"  What!"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  springing  forward,  and 
seizing  her  by  the  arm,  "  Whose  child,  did  you  say  I 
was  ?" 

"The  only  daughter  of  Esther  Erliston  and  Alfred 
Oranmore  ;  and  heiress,  in  your  mother's  right,  of  Mount 
Sunset  Hall,"  replied  Mrs,  Oranmore. 

"  And  grandchild  of  Squire  Erliston  ?" 

'  Yes." 

Gipsy  staggered  back,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
!{ands.  Her  emotion  was  but  momentary  however  ;  and 
Rgain  approaching  the  bed,  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  was 
perfectly  calm,  though  her  wild,  excited  eyes  spoke  a 
different  tale  : 

"  Tell  me  all  about  this.  How  came  I  to  be  left  to 
perish  on  the  shore  ?" 

"  Leave  the  room,  both  of  you,"  said  the  sick  woman, 
to    her    attendants.     They    obeyed.      '  Now    sit    dow* 


'I' 


Tl 


'4  ', 


A'* 


'% 


i' 


34«        T^£    DEATH-BSD    CONIESSION. 

beside  me,"  she  continued,  turning  to  Gipsy  ;  '  and  tell 

me,  are  you  married  ?" 

"  Yes,  they  say  so — to  old  Dr  Nicholas  Wiseman." 

•'  Great  heaven  !  wiiat  did  you  suy  ?"  excliiimed  Mra 
Oranmore,  in  a  vuicc  of  horror. 

"  Yes.  It's  surprising,  ain't  it,  that  I  married  that  old 
man.  But  that's  got  nothing  to  do  with  your  story.  Go 
on,"  urged  Gipsy. 

"  Child  !  child  I"  said  the  dying  woman  faintly,  ^y§u 
have  wedded  the  murderer  of  your  mother ^ 

With  a  low,  sharp  cry  Gipsy  sprang  to  her  feet— her 
countenance  blanched  to  the  hue  of  death. 

"Did  he  know  your  history?"  asked  Mrs.  Oranmore^ 
breaking  the  long  pause  that  followed. 

"  Yes  ;  he  heard  it  a  few  weeks  before  we  were  mar- 
ried," said  Gipsy,  in  a  voice  that  was  hoarse  and  un- 
■atural. 

'Then  he  married  you  that  he  might  possess  Mount 
Sunset.  Oh,  the  villainy  of  that  wretch  !  But  let  him 
beware  !  for  the  day  of  retribution  is  at  hand." 

"Tell  me  all,  from  the  beginning,"  said  Gipsy,  seat- 
ing herself,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  as  stern,  and  with  a 
face  as  firm  and  rigid,  as  that  of  tlie  grim  invalid  her- 
self ;  but  those  eyes — those  eyes — how  they  blazed  ! 

There  is  little  need  to  recapitulate  the  tale  told  to 
Gipsy — she  related  only  what  the  reader  already  knows; 
the  death  of  Esther  by  her  instigation,  but  by  his  han^. 
and  the  infant  left  to  perish  in  the  waves. 

"I  suppose  he  left  you  on  the  shore,  thinking  thfl 
waves  would  wash  you  away,"  concluded  Mrs.  Oran* 
more,  "when  you  were  providentially  saved  by  the  same 
Almighty  power  that  guarded  Moses  in  his  cradle  ol 
bulrushes.  I  supposed  you  had  perished,  and  so  did  he ; 
but  the  agonies  of  remorse  I  have  suffered  for  what  I 
have  done,  I  can  never  reveal.     Nighi  and  day,  Bleeping 


r  and  tell 

leman." 
ted  Mra 

that  old 
tory.    Go 

tly,  "jw* 

feet— her 

)raninore^ 

vere  mar- 

'■  and  un- 

:ss  Mount 
t  let  him 

ipsy,  seat- 
nd  with  a 
^alid  her- 
zed  ! 

le  told  to 
y  knows; 
lis  hand, 

king  th« 
"s.  Orao* 
the  same 
cradle  of 
3  did  he ; 
r  what  I 
sleeping 


TUM    DSATH'BBD    CONFR.^SION.       541 

or  waking,  the  last  dying  shrieks  of  Esther  Oranmore 
have  been  ringinpc  in  my  ears.  My  son  married  Lizzie 
Ei listen  ;  and  his  violent  death  was  but  tlie  beginning 
of  my  livinj;  punishment.  Fur  his  son's  sake,  I  have 
kept  my  dreadful  secret  d  uing  life;  but  now,  at  tht 
hour  of  death,  a  power  over  which  I  have  no  control 
compels  me  to  reveal  all.  I  am  beyond  the  power  of  the 
law — I  go  to  answer  for  my  crimes  at  the  bar  of  God; 
therefore,  I  fear  not  in  making  these  disclosures.  My 
hour  has  come." 

"  But  he  shall  not  escape!"  said  Gipsy,  rising  from 
the  chair,  on  which  she  sat  as  if  petrified,  while  listening 
to  the  story  of  her  birth.  "  No  !  by  the  heaven  above 
us  both,  his  life  shall  pay  for  this  !  Woman,"  she  con- 
tinued, turning  fiercely  upon  Mrs.  Oranmore,  "you  ^hall 
«/?/ die  until  you  have  done  justice  to  the  child  of  her 
you  have  murdered  !  I  will  send  for  a  magistrate  ;  and 
}?»vU  must  make  fv  deposition  of  all  you  have  told  me  to 
hun.  Death  shall  not  enter  here  yet,  to  cheat  the  gal- 
lows of  its  due  !" 

She  sprang  to  the  bell,  and  rang  a  pea?  that  brought 
all  the  servants  in  the  house  flocking  wildly  into  the 
room. 

"Go  to  the  nearest  magistrate,"  she  said,  turning  t.o 
the  boy  who  had  accompanied  her  from  St.  Mark's — 
"fly!  vanish!  Tell  him  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
Go!  and  be  back  here  in  ten  minutes,  or  you  shall  rue  it !" 

The  boy  tied,  frightened  out  of  his  wits  by  her  fierce 
words  and  looks.  Shutting  the  door  in  the  faces  of  the 
others,  Gipsy  seated  herself  ;  and  setting  her  teeth  hard 
together,  and  clenching  her  hands,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
the  floor,  and  sat  as  immovable  as  if  turning  tc  stone. 
Mrs.  Oranmore  lay  in  silence — either  not  willing  or  ^ot 
able  to  speak. 

Ere  fifteen   minutes   had   thus   pasted,  th«  boj  r^ 


ill  '' 

[;; 

1 

1 
1 

1 

111,  I 


!••;•.'»'• 


;"; 


i«j  [■ 


350        TIf£    DKATH-BED     CONFESSION, 


I 


'«t':'> 


if : 


b 


1 1 


^•5 


turned,  accompanied  V)y  1  magistralc — a  short,  blustdi 
iiig,   important  personage.     He  bowed  to  Gipsy — who 
arose  apon   his    entrance — and    began    drawing  off  his 
gloves,  making  some  remark  upcm  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  which  she  abruptly  cut  short,  by  saying  : 

"This  woman  is  dying,  and  wishes  to  make  a  depo- 
sition.  Here  are  writing-materials  ;  sit  down  and  com- 
men  re — you  have  no  time  to  spare." 

il  jrricd  away  by  her  impetuosity,  the  little  man 
foui'd  himself,  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  sitting  by  the 
beci-side,  pen  in  hand,  writing  and  listening,  with  many 
an  ejaculation  of  wonder,  horror,  and  amazement. 

At  length  the  deposition  was  duly  drawn  up  and 
signed,  and  he  arose,  exclaiming  : 

"  But,  good  heaven  !  madam,  do  you  not  know,  if 
yC'U  survive,  you  will  be  arrested  too,  and         " 

"Hush  !"  said  Gipsy,  sternly  ;    'she  is  dying." 

"  I  tell  you  I  did  not  murder  hor,"  she  exclaimed, 
almost  springing  up  in  bed  ;  "  it  was  he  who  gave  her 
the  poison  !  I  never  did  it.  Listen  !  do  you  net  hear 
her  shrieks  ?  or  is  it  not  the  cries  of  the  fiends  I  h^ar  al- 
re-^dy  ?  //<?  was  alraid.  fla  !  ha  !  ha  !"  she  said,  with  a 
horrid  laugh,  "  I  mocked  him  until  he  ventured  to  do  it 
He  drowned  her  child,  too  ;  he  said  he  did — he  threw  it 
into  the  sea  ;  and  dead  people  tell  no  tales.  Who  said  it 
was  alive'  I  will  never  believe  it!  It  is  dead!  It  is 
dead  !" 

She  sank  back  exhausted.  The  magistrate  gazed 
vhiie  with  horror  ;  but  Gipsy  was  calm,  stern,  and  still. 

"  Look,  look  !  they  come  for  mc — their  arms  are  out- 
stretched —  they  approach  —  they  strangle  me.  Off, 
demon — jff,  I  say  !"  A  wild,  piercing  shriek  rang 
through  tl  c  house,  then  she  fell  back,  her  jaw  droppedf 
her  eyes  grew  •ylaxed,  her  face  rigid,  and  Madge  Oran- 
more  was  dead 


hetributton. 


blustdi 
ipsy — who 
»g  off  his 
|ncy  of  the 

fe  a  depo- 
land  com- 

ittle   man 
ng  by  the 
Ivith  many 
ent. 
n  up  and 

:  know,  \i 


351 


There  was  a  moment's  appalJed  siUiice.  Then  the 
magistrate  said  : 

"  Let  us  leave  this  dreadful  place  ;  the  very  air  seems 
tainted  with  blood." 

Without  a  word,  she  turned  and  iollowed  him  Irom 
the  room,  and  the  house.  Rejecting  all  his  invitations 
to  let  him  find  lodgings  for  her  in  the  city  during  th« 
night,  she  accompanied  him  to  iiis  office,  received  a  war* 
rant  for  the  arrest  of  Dr.  Wiseman  ;  and  with  two  CO»- 
stables,  set  off  immediately  for  Sunset  Hall. 


•i.(  » 


■I 


r;::i 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


exclaimed, 
gave  her 
u  nc  t  hear 
;  I  h  ;ar  al- 
iaid,  with  a 
:d  ^,0  do  it 
le  threw  it 
i^ho  said  it 
lead  !  It  is 

ite  gazed 
,  and  still. 
IS  are  out- 
me.  Off, 
riek  rang 
dropped, 
Ige  Oran- 


RETRIBUTION. 

"  Oh,  woman  wronged  can  cherish  hate 

More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood  majTi 
And  when  the  mockery  ol"  fate 

Hath  left  revenge  her  chosen  w'.y." 

— WurmML. 

T  was  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day.  The 
squire  sat  alone,  mutterinf;^  to  himself : 
"Singular!  must  singular!  most  ex -<:«*• 
ively  singular  !  wants  a  private  interview, 
eh  I  What  the  dickens  can  be  in  old  Wise- 
man's noddle  now  ?  Maybe  he  wants  to  divorce  Gipsy, 
and  marry  Lizzie.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  that  would  be  a  joke. 
Wonder  what  old  Mother  Oranmore  wanted?  that's 
another  secret.  I  suppose  she  told  Gipsy  and — ha  ! 
here's  Gipsy  herself.  'Speak  of  Old  Nick,  and  he'll 
appear,'  as  Solomon  says.  Well,  what's  the  news?" 
"Where's  Dr.  Wiseman  ?"  i  »quired  Gipsy,  abruptly. 
Up  stairs.     He  sent  down    "ord   some   time  ages 


« 


'■.i'^ 


ijS' 

'"  ••! 

''■  ■;'' 

'[•i  :: 

:t*'!  •■• 

'l      • 
1  ■■  s 

>'/.;!l 

ff, 

I5« 


JtETttiBUTIOH, 


\ : 


II 


that  he  had  sotnething  important  to  tell  me,  and  waittcif 
aptivate  interview.  Think  of  that!  But  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  \(>\\  look  as  if  you'd  been  ridinjr  en 
a  broomstick  all  night — as  if  you  were  the  Witch  cl 
Eudor,  who  told  King  Saul's  fortune  long  ago." 

As  he  spoke,  a  slow,  heavy  footstep  was  heard  de- 
scending the  stairs. 

"There's  old  VViseman  now,  pegging  along,"  said 
the  squire.  "  I  never  see  him  walking,  since  he  brok« 
his  shin-bone,  that  he  doesn't  remind  me  of  Old  Nick 
himself.     Nuw^for  this  wonderful  secret  of  his." 

**  Guardy,  don't  mention  that  I  am  here,'*  said  Gipsy, 
hurriedly.  *'  I  have  a  project  in  hand,  that  I  fancy  will 
astonish  him  a  little,  by  and  by." 

"  Well,  be  sure  you're  right,  then  go  ahead,  as  Solo- 
mon says — you  always  have  some  project  or  other  in 
your  cranium  to  bother  his  brains." 

"  I  fancy  I  will  bother  him  a  little  more  than  usuai 
this  time,"  said  Gipsy,  with  a  low,  bitter  laugh — gliding 
through  one  door  just  as  the  doctor  entered  by  another. 

Dr.  Wiseman,  thin  and  attenuated  by  illness,  looked 
even  more  ghastly  and  hideous  (if  such  a  thing  were  pos- 
sible) than  when  we  saw  him  last.  He  advanced,  and 
took  a  seat  near  the  fire. 

"  Well,  Wiseman,  what's  this  wonderful  affair  you 
bare  to  tell  mc?"  said  the  squire,  adjusting  himself  in 
his  seat  to  listen. 

"  It  concerns  my  wife,"  replied  the  doctor,  slowly. 

**Ves,  some  complaint,  I'll  be  bound!  Now,  I  tell 
fou  what,  Wiseman,  I  won't  listen  to  your  stories  about 
Gipsy.  She  has  always  done  what  she  liked,  and  she 
always  shall,  for  what  I  care.  If  she  likes  to  enjoy  her- 
self, she  will,  and  you  nor  no  one  else  shall  interfere," 
«aid  the  squire,  striking  the  table  with  an  empiuuic 
thump 


W' 


RE  TjRI  BUTTON. 


353 


Willi  tctf 

|at  is  the 

idinjf  en 
'^itch    cl 

learJ  de- 

ig,"   said 

he  brok« 

Hd  Nick 
» 

id  Gipsy. 
incy  will 

,  as  Solo- 
other  in 

lan  usuai 
—gliding 
another. 

;S,  looked 
were  pos- 

Dced,  and 

^iflfair  you 
limself  in 

slowly, 
ow,  I  tell 
ries  about 
I,  and  she 
:njoy  her- 
ntcrfcrc/' 
empiiAtic 


**  Don't  jump  at  conclusions  so  hastily,  my  dear  sir," 
said  the  doctor,  dry  y.  '*  I  have  no  complaint  to  make 
of  Mrs.  Wiseman.  It  is  of  her  birth  and  parentage  I 
would  sptak." 

"  Her  birth  and  parentage  !  Is  the  man  mad  ?  Don't 
you  know  she's  a  foundling?"  said  ihc  squire,  utariag 
with  all  hir  eyes. 

"  Yes,  but  lately  I  have  discovered  who  she  is.  You 
need  not  excite  yourself,  Squire  Erliston,  as  I  see  you  in- 
tend doing.  Listen  to  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
it.     The  time  has  come  for  you  to  know. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  th  it  for  many  years  I 
have  been  the  friend  and  confidant  of  Mrs.  Madge  Oran- 
more  ;  but  so  it  is.  I  was  bound  to  her  by  the  strongest 
ties  of  gratitude,  and  willingly  served  her  in  all  things. 

"One  Christmas  eve,  just  nineteen  years  ago,  she  sent 
for  me  in  most  urgent  haste.  I  followed  her  messenger, 
and  was  shown  to  the  lady's  room.  There  I  found  an 
infant  enveloped  in  a  large  shawl,  which  she  told  me  I 
was  to  consign  to  the  wnves — in  a  word,  to  drown  it. 
You  start,  Squire  Erliston,  but  such  was  her  command. 
She  refused  to  tell  me  what  prompted  her  to  so  nendisl) 
an  act.  I  was  in  her  pow  er,  and  she  knew  I  dared  not 
refuse  ;  I  therefore  consented "" 

"To  drown  the  child?"  said  the  squire,  recoiling  in 
horror. 

"  Listen — I  feared  to  refuse,  and  promised  to  do  it. 
I  went  to  the  beach,  the  tide  was  out  ;  while  I  stood  hes- 
itating, I  heard  a  sleigh  approaching.  I  wrapped  the 
child  up  closely,  and  laid  it  right  in  their  way,  and  stood 
aside  to  watch  the  event  ;  determined,  in  case  they  did 
not  see  it,  to  provide  for  it  comfortably  myself.  Fortu- 
nately, they  saw  it.  A  woman  who  was  in  the  sleigh 
ook  it  with  her — that  woman  was  Mrs.  Gower — ^that 
child  is  now  my  w*fe." 


'■f,  , 


Mivn-  rj4 


S54 


RETRIBUTION. 


m 


r 


t'!;..' 


W-H; 


"Goo-oo-d  Lord!"  cjaciihiled  the  iquire,  wtcse 
mouth  and  eyes  were  open  to  tlieir  widest  extent. 

"  When  you  told  me  how  she  had  been  found,  1  knew 
immediately  it  was  the  same.  I  had  long  felt  remoisr 
for  what  I  had  done,  and  I  at  once  resolved  to  make  re 
paration  to  the  best  of  my  power,  by  marryiiig  thi 
foundling.  This,  Squire  Erliston,  was  the  secret  of  m) 
wish  to  marry  Gipsy,  which  puzzled  you  so  long. 

"  Still,  I  was  ctjmplcLcly  igiioiant  of  her  parentage 
Owing  to  my  accident,  1  was  unable  to  visit  Mrs.  Orau- 
more  ;  but  I  wrote  to  her  repeatedly,  threatening  her 
with  exposure  if  she  did  not  immediately  reveal  the 
whole  aJQfair.  She  grew  alarmed  at  last,  and  sent  me  a 
letter  that  explained  all,  only  bei^ging  me  not  to  disgrace 
her,  by  letting  the  world  know  what  she  had  done.  That 
letter,  I  regret  to  say,  has  been  unhappily  lost." 

"Well!"  said  the  squire,  breathlessly,  seeing  he 
paused. 

"Well,  sir,  she  told  me  all.  My  wife  is  the  child  of 
your  eldest  daughter,  Esther,  and  Alfred  Ora.imore." 

Bewildered,  amazed,  thunderstruck,  the  squire  sra 
l^az'ng  upon  him  in  a  speechless  horror. 

"The  way  ol  rt   was  this"  continued  the  doctor,  as 
calmly  as  though  he  was  ordering  him  a  prescription. 
"Alfred    Oranmore,    as    you    know,   was    accidental!} 
drowned,  leaving  his   wife   in   the   utmost   destitutior: 
Mrs.  Oranmore  heard  of  it,  and   had  Esther  privaiel 
conveyed  to  her  house,  while  she  caused  a  notice  of  hi 
death  to  be  published   in   the   papers.     What  her  obji.o. 
was  in  doing  this,  I  know  not.      Esther,  she  says,  died  !■: 
her  house.     How  she  came   by  nar  death,  I  cannot  even 
guess.     I  knew  nothing  (jf  it  at  the  timC)  as  I  told  y  )u 
before.     Mrs.  Oranmore  wished  this  child  removed,  that 
it  might  not  be  in  tiie  way  of  her  son,  Barry  ;  and  think- 
ing I  was  as  heartless  and  cruel  as  herself,  she  employed 


i 


RETRIBUTION, 


555 


wbcse 

1  knew 

rem  DISC 
nake  re 
ijig  tlu 

t  of    til) 

• 

irentage. 
s.  Oraii- 
ling  her 
jveal  the 
nt  me  a 
disgrace 
le.    That 

;eing    he 

5  child  of 
lore." 
quire  sa.t 

loccor,  as 
>cription. 
identall} 
stitutiori 
privaielj 
ce  of  lu 
ler  objcc. 
s,  died  ii: 
not  even 
told  y  >u 
»ved,  that 
ad  think- 
imployed 


me  to  drown  it.  Such,  Squire  Erliston,  is  ^his  singular 
itory.  1  thought  it  my  duty  to  inform  you  immediately." 

'*And  Gipsy  is  my  grandchild,"  said  the  squire,  in 
the  slow,  bewildered  tone  of  one  who  cannot  reali2e 
what  he  says. 

"  Ves  ;  and  the  rightful  heiress  of  Mount  Sunset," 
laid  the  wily  doctor,  in  a  slow,  triumphaul  tone. 

"  And  the  avenger  of  her  mother  !"  cried  the  voice  of 
Gipsy  herself,  as  she  stood  before  them.  "  Oh,  wonder- 
ful Doctor  Wiseman  !  astonishing  indeed  is  thy  talent 
for  invention  and  hardiiiood.  What  a  strain  on  your 
imagination  it  must  have  been,  to  invent  such  a  story  ! 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  proverb,  '  Murder  will  out,' 
my  lord  and  masrer  ?  IIo,  there  !  Burke  and  Johnston, 
enter  !  here  is  your  prisoner  !" 

She  opened  the  duor  as  she  spoke,  and  the  constables 
entered. 

"  What  in  the  devil's  name  means  this?"  exclaimed 
the  doctor,  growing  deadly  pale. 

"  Yes',  call  on  your  master,"  mocked  Gipsy  ;  "he  has 
stood  by  you  long,  but  I  fear  he  will  not  serve  you  more. 
Quick,  there,  Burke  !  on  with  the  handcuffs.  Gently, 
Doctor  Wiseman — gently,  my  dear  sir  ;  you  will  hurt 
your  delicate  wrists  if  you  struggle  so.  Did  any  pro- 
phetic seer  ever  foretell,  Doctor  Wiseman,  your  end 
would  be  by  the  halter?" 

*'  What  means  this  outrage  ?  Unhand  me,  villains  !" 
exclaimed  the  doctor,  hoarse  with  rage  and  fear,  as  he 
struggled  madly  to  free  himself  from  the  grasp  of  the 
constables. 

"  Softly,  doctor,  softly,"  said  Gipsy,  in  a  voice,  low, 
calm,  and  mocking ;  "  you  are  only  arrested  for  the 
murder  of  my  mother,  Esther  Oranmore,  just  nineteen 
years  ago.  Ah  !  I  see  you  /emember  it.  I  feared  such 
a  trifle  might  have  escaped  your  memory  !" 


'^ 


1 


ill 


fj»f';l 


I  m 


356 


RETRIBU2TON, 


X 


m 


r: 


N;:i?' 


i 


i 


!i 


n 


Tjie  face  of  the  doctor  grew  perfectly  ghastly.  He 
staggered  back,  anc  would  have  fallen,  had  he  not  been 
upheld  by  one  of  tne  men.  Gipsy  stood  before  h'm, 
with  a  face  perfectly  wluLe,  save  two  dark  purple  spDts 
burning  on  either  cheek.  Her  wild  eyes  were  blazing 
with  an  intense  iiglit,  her  lips  wreathed  in  a  smile  ol 
exultant  triumpii  ;  her  long  hair,  streaming  in  dis- 
order down  her  back,  gave  her  a  look  that  awed  even 
the  constables  tiiemselves. 

"  And  now.  Doctor  Wiseman,"  she  said,  in  a  slow, 
bitter,  but  exulting  voice,  "  I  have  fulfilled  my  vow  ol 
vengeance  ;  my  revenge  is  complete,  or  will  be,  when 
your  miserable  body  swings  from  the  gallows.  I  see 
now,  your  aim  in  compelling  me  to  marry  you  ;  but  you 
have  failed.  Satan  has  deserted  his  earthly  representa- 
tive, at  last.  No  earthly  power  can  save  you  from  hang- 
ing now.  Away  with  him  to  prison  !  The  very  ai/  ii 
tainted  which  a  murderer  breathes." 

The  men  advanced  to  bear  off  their  prisoner.  At 
that  moment  the  recollection  of  the  astrologer's  fell  pre- 
diction flashed  across  his  mind.  Word  for  word  it  had 
been  fulfilled.  Before  him,  in  ghastly  array,  arose  the 
scaffold,  the  hangman,  his  dying  agonies,  and  X.'w*.  terri- 
ble hereafter.  Overcome  by  fear,  horror,  and  rerkiorse, 
with  a  piercing  shriek  of  utter  woo»  the  wretched  man 
fell  senseless  to  the  floor. 

"Take  him  away,"  said  Gipsy,  sternly,  turning  aside 
with  a  shuddei  of  disgust ;  "  my  eyes  loathe  the  sight 
of  him  !" 

They  bore  him  away.  Gipsy  stood  at  the  window 
listening,  until  the  last  sound  of  the  carriage  died  away 
in  the  distance  ;  then,  abruptly  turning,  she  quitted  the 
room,  leaving  the  squire  stunned,  speechless,  and  bewil* 
dered  Dy  the  rapidity  with  which  all  this  had  taken  place 


ANOTHER     %U&PR1SS, 


W 


CHAPTER  XXXVH. 


ANOTHER   SUKPRISK. 


"  No  heiress  art  thou,  lady,  but  the  child 
Of  one  who's  still  unknown." 


L'J 


coLisierna 

seinan's  crime 


and 


and  the  neicrh- 


tic 


ii  ana  roinan 
circumstances  attcndi  ag  it,  imperfectly 
known  as  they  were,  the  respectability  of  the  parties 
implicated,  the  high  standing  of  the  prisoner  in  so- 
ciety— all  coutriijuied  to  add  to  the  general  interest  of 
the  case. 

The  rapid  and  exciting  events,  the  startling  dis- 
covery that  Gipsy  was  his  grandchild,  so  confounded 
and  bewildered  the  sqairo,  who  was  never  noted  for 
the  brightness  uf  liis  intellect,  that  it  completely  vipsct 
his  eqiiiiiuiium  •  and  his  di^ys  were  passed  alone,  smok- 
ing and  blaring  .cupidly  at  every  one  he  saw.  As  for 
Lizzie,  she  was  luo  fceDie  and  languid  either  to  feci  hor- 
ror or  surprise,  and  a  faint  stare  and  shiver  was  the  only 
effect  the  news  produced  upon  her.  Mrs.  Gower  groaned 
in  spirit  over  the  depravity  of  mankind  in  general, 
and  Dr.  Wiseman  in  particular;  and  generally  passed 
her  days  in  solemn  exhortations  to  the  servants,  to  be 
warned  by  his  fearful  example,  and  mend  their  ways. 

On  Gipsy,  therefore,  all  the  business  of  the  hoube- 
hold  devolved.  A  great  change  had  come  over  the  elf ; 
her  laughing  iays  seemed  passed  ;  and  quietly  establish- 
ing herself  as  mistress  of  the  household,  she  issutd  her 


358 


ANOTHER    SURPRISE, 


t 


W"^ 


!*;:■ 


ii 

i 


ty  and  calm  authoiity,  that 
rspect.  She  wrote  to  Louis, 
I  \d  occurred,  and   desiring 


orders,   with   a   quiet   di^ 
commanded  obedience  an 
informing-  him  of      ?    t' 
him  to  return  honi*,     n  'ic'iutcly. 

The  only  nioL  en:  -  i  :;!:ixriti<)n  which  Gipsy  ever 
'I  lowed  herself  were  her  visii  *o  Valley  Cottage,  listen- 
.ug  to  the  gentle  words  of  Celeste — "dear  Celeste,"  as 
iripsy  called  her.  Day  by  day  she  had  grown  paler  and 
frailer,  her  step  had  lost  its  airy  lightness,  her  cheeks  no 
longer  wore  the  hue  of  health;  but  no  complaint  ever 
passed  her  lips.  Gipsy  often  passed  her  nights  at  the 
cottage,  feeling  it  a  comfort  to  pour  her  troubles  into 
the  sympathizing  ears  «)f  her  friend.  And  Celeste  would 
forget  her  own  sorrow  in  soothing  and  consoling  the 
poor,  half-crazed  little  elf. 

Miss  Hagar,  whose  health  liad  for  some  time  been 
failing,  was  now  unable  to  leave  her  bed.  Fearing  the 
shock  might  prove  fatal.  Celeste  had  taken  care  she 
should  not  hear  of  her  brother's  arrest.  As  for  Minnette, 
no  one  knew  where  she  wai'  ;  and,  indeed,  few  cared — 
for  her  hard,  selfish  nature  had  made  her  disliked  by 
all. 

One  evening,  Mrs.  Gower  sat  in  one  of  the  upper 
chambers  conversing  with  Mrs.  Donne,  whose  life,  it 
will  be  remembered,  Gipsy  saved.  That  worthy  old  lady 
was  still  an  inmate  of  Sunset  Hall,  and  unw'lling  to 
leave  her  comfortable  quarters  while  suffering  with  the 
"rheumatiz."  In  the  confusion  and  excitement  follow- 
ing the  arrest,  she  had  been  almost  totally  neglected,  and 
had  as  yet  no  opportunity  of  learning  the  particulars. 
Proridertially  encountering  Mrs.  Gower,  when  really 
dying  of  curiosity,  she  began  plying  her  with  questions  , 
and  the  worthy  housekeeper,  delighted  to  find  so  atten- 
tive a  l>s^ener,  sat  down,  and  with  much  gravity  began 


ANOTHER    SURPRISE. 


359 


ity,  that 

to  Louis, 

desiring 

Ipsy  ever 
|e,  listen- 
este,"  as 
alcr  and 
heeks  no 
int  ever 
|ts  at  the 
bles  into 
ste  would 
:)ling  the 

ime  been 
aring  the 
care  she 
Minnette, 
^  cared — 
i  si  iked  by 

:he  upper 
se  life,  it 
^  old  lady 
v'lling  to 
with  the 
it  follow- 
jcted,  and 
rticulars. 
en  really 
jcstions , 
so  atten- 
ty  began 


nav'iting'  the  whole  afifair,  whi^>;  the  attention  cf  her 
au  .icor  deepened  every  moment. 

"  Laws  a  ir-isp;  'pon  me  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Donne,  as 
•he  ceased  ;  "was  she  picked  up  on  the  beach,  Chriitmvi 
eve,  nineteen  years  ago  ?" 

*'  Yes  ;  astonishing,  isn't  it  ?" 

"'Stonishing !  I  guess  so!"  said  Mrs.  Donne;  "if 
you  knew  what  I  do,  you'd  say  so." 

"Why,  what  do  you  know?  do  tell  me,"  said  M.  i. 
Gower,  whose  curiosity  was  aroused. 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do  ;  though  I  did  inte-^  \  \  ■> 
carry  the  secret  to  the  grave  v/ith  me.  But  as  I  coulc  'w 
help  it,  they  can't  do  nothing  to  me  for  losing  the  '^hild. 

"On  the  very  night  you  speak  of,  Christmi. ,  ve, 
nineteen  years  ago,  I  was  brought  by  a  young  man  to  a 
house  in  the  distant  part  of  the  city  to  nurse  a  woman 
and  child.  The  young  man  was  tall,  and  dark,  and 
powerful  handsome,  but  sort  o'  fierce-looking ;  and  she 
— oh,  she  was  the  loveliest  creature  I  ever  laid  my  eyes 
onto  !  She  was  nothin'  but  a  child  herself,  too,  and  a 
furriner,  I  suspect,  by  her  tongue. 

"  Well,  I  staid  there  'long  with  her,  till  nigh  onto 
midnight ;  and  then  I  wrapped  myself  up  to  come  home. 
As  I  was  going  out,  he  called  on  me  to  stop.  So  I  sat 
down  to  listen,  and  he  told  me,  if  I'd  take  the  child 
home  with  me,  and  take  care  on't,  he'd  pay  me  well.  I 
liad  neither  chick  nor  child  of  my  own.  >»f;sides  being  a 
widder,  and  I  took  him  at  his  word.  He  gave  me  a 
purse  with  a  good  round  sum  of  money  in  it,  on  the 
spot,  and  promised  me  more. 

*'  I  took  the  little  one,  wrapped  it  up  in  my  shaw<,  and 
set  out  for  home. 

"On  the  way  I  got  tired ;  and  when  I  reached  the 
beach,  I  sat  down  to  rest.  Two  or  tbfee  minutes  aftci, 
there  was  a  great  crv  of   fire.     I  became  frightened; 


m 


if      .    ■ 


¥ 


M 


W^' 


I 


*i€ 


360 


ANOTHER    SURPRISE, 


dropped  the  baby  in  my  confusion  ;  wandered  off  1 
know  not  iiow  ;  and  when  I  came  back,  not  long  &ftei  • 
ward,  it  was  gone. 

*' Well,  I  'cl.'ire  to  man  !  I  was  most  crazy.  I  hunted 
up  and  down  the  beach  till  nigh  mornin',  but  I  could  see 
ao  Jiigns  of  it ;  and  I  supposed  the  tide  carried  the  poor 
little  thing  away.  1  was  dreadfully  sorry,  you  may  be 
sure  ;  but  as  it  couldn't  be  helped,  I  thought  I'd  make 
the  best  of  it,  and  say  nothing  about  it.  So  when  the 
young  man  came,  I  told  him  it  was  doing  very  well. 
And  he  never  asked  to  see  it,  but  gave  me  some  money, 
and  went  away. 

"For  some  time  after  he  continued  sending  i.ie 
money  ;  but  he  soon  stopped  altogether,  and  I  never 
heard  from  either  of  them  more." 

"Did  you  ever  find  out  his  name?"  inquired  Mrs 
Gower. 

"  Yes.  One  day  he  dropped  his  handkerchief,  going 
out.  I  picked  it  up,  and  his  name  was  written  on  it  in 
full  :  it  was,  Barry  Oratwiore  T 

*'  Barry  Oranmore  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Gower,  thunder- 
struck. 

"  Ves,  that  was  his  name  ;  and  they  were  the  hand- 
somest pair  ever  I  saw.  I'm  sure  I'd  know  either  of  'em 
again,  if  ever  I  saw  them.* 

Much  agitated,  Mrs.  Gower  arose,  and  going  to  where 
the  had  laid  the  miniature  she  had  found  on  his  neck 
when  dead,  she  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Donne.  That  person- 
age seized  it,  with  a  stifled  shriek,  as  she  exclaimed  : 

"  My  goodness  gracious  !  it's  the  picter  of  the  lady 
I  'tended.     I'd  know  that  face  anywhere." 

"  Oh  !  dear  !  dear  !  dear  !  what  would  Miss  Lizzie  say 
if  she  heard  this?"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Gower,  holdiag  up 
her  hands.  "  And  the  child,  poor  thing  !  are  you  sure 
it  was  drowned  7" 


f  . 


ANOTHER    SURPRISE. 


361 


"Well,  no  ;  I  ain't  to  say  sure ;  but  it's  m;«  likely. 
It  was  an  odd-looking  little  thing,  too,  with  a  nat'ral 
mark,  like  a  red  cross,  rig'.iL  onto  its  shoulder,  which  ia 
something  I  never  seed  on  any  baby  before." 

But  to  the  surprise  of  Mrs.  Donne,  Mrs.  Gjwer 
sprang  panting  to  her  feet,  and  grasped  her  by  the  arm, 
exclaiming  : 

"  On  which  shoulder  was  that  mark  ?  Say  on  which 
shoulder  !" 

"On  the  left.     Laws  a  massy  'pon  mc  !  what's  th 
matter  ?"  said  the  astonished  Mrs  Donne. 

"  Good  heavens  !  Can  the  child  she  speaks  of  have 
been " 

"Who's?"  inquired  Mrs.  Donne,  eagerly. 

Before  Mrs.  Gower  could  reply,  she  heard  Gipsy's 
foot  in  the  passage.  Going  out,  she  caught  her  by  the 
arm  and  drew  her  into  the  room.  Then  before  the 
young  lady  could  recover  from  her  astonishment  at  this 
summary  proceeding,  she  had  unfastened  her  dress, 
pulled  it  down  off  her  left  shoulder,  and  displayed  a 
iup-red  cross. 

Recovering  herself,  Gipsy  sprang  back,  exclaiming 
.ndignantly  : 

"What  in  the  name  of  all  that's  impolite,  has  goi 
into  you,  Aunty  Gower  ?  Pretty  work  this,  pul'ing  the 
clothes  off  a  lady's  back  without  even  saying,  by  your 
leave." 

But  Mrs.  Donne  had  seen  the  mark,  and  fell  back, 
with  a  slitlei  cry. 

"  That's  it !  that's  it  exactly  !  She's  the  child  saved, 
after  all." 

"  Why,  whose  child  am  I  new  f"  said  the  astonished 
Gipsy. 

"  Can  you  describe  the  shawl  the  child  you  speak  of 
16 


;i'> 


1$ 

iff'  ■>        '.  ,'i' 


It- J . 


■■J) 


l\. 


>rii'-. 


H^^ 


U' 


7* .''., 


3«a 


^^C7  r/^iff^     ^  URPRISE, 


was  wrapped  in  ?'*  inquired  Mrs.  Qower,  w.thouc  giving 
her  time  to  ans  ver  Gipsy's  question. 

"  Yes,  that  I  can — it  was  my  own  wedding  shawl,  as 
my  blessed  husband,  who  is  now  an  angel  up  above, 
bought  for  nic  afore  we  were  married.  It  was  briglit 
red  with  a  white  border,  and  the  letters  J.  D.  (which 
sWAuds  for  Jane  Donne)  in  one  corner,  and  the  letter? 
J.  D.  (which  stands  for  James  Donne)  in  t'other,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Donne,  with  animation. 

Mrs.  Gower  sank  into  a  seat  and  corcrcd  her  face 
with  her  hands  ;  while  Gipsy  stood  gazing  from  one  to 
the  other  in  the  utmost  perplexity. 

"  What  docs  all  this  mean  ?"  she  asked,  at  length. 

Without  replying,  Mrs.  Gower  left  the  room,  and 
presently  re-appeared  with  a  faded  crimson  shawl,  which 
she  spread  upon  the  bed.  Mrs.  Donne  uttered  a  cry  ol 
joy  when  she  saw  it. 

"  Sakes  alive  !  that  is  the  very  one  Where  on  earth 
dio  you  get  it  ?" 

"  Wrapped  around  the  child." 

"  Aunty,  pray  tell  me  what  in  the  world  does  all  this 
mean  ?"  exclaimed  Gipsy. 

For  reply,  Mrs.  Gower  briefly  narrated  what  had 
been  told  her  by  Mrs.  Donne.  The  surprise  of  Gipsy 
may  be  imagined,  but  her  surprise  scarcely  equaled  her 
pleasure. 

"Thank  God!"  she  fervently  exclaimed,  as  Mrs. 
Gower  ceased,  "  then  I  have  not  married  the  murderer  of 
nay  mother — that  thought  would  have  rendered  me 
wretched  to  my  dying  day.  My  mot^  ir,  then,  may  be 
living  yet,  for  all  you  know." 

In  her  exultation  Gipsy  first  rode  over  to  tell  Celeste, 
then  coming  home  she  seated  herself  and  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  Louis : 


Alf OTHER    SVRFRISS. 


3«J 


\ 


"Sunset  Hall,  St.  Maik's,  ) 

December  23,  18 — .  J 
'*DiAR  Louis  :  In  my  last  I  told  you  I  was  the  child 
of  your  Aunt  Esther,  and  Alfred  Oranmore  ;  since  then 
I  have  discovered  we  were  mistaken.  My  father  and 
vours,  Louis,  were  the  same — w!io  my  mother  was,  I 
kno\v  not  ;  but  Aunty  Gower  has  shown  me  a  likeness 
found  on  my  father's  neck  when  dead,  representing  a 
young  and  lovely  j;irl,  who  must  have  been  my  mother  ; 
for  though  the  picture  is  fair,  and  I  am  dark,  yet  they 
say  they  can  trace  a  sircuig  resemblance  between  us.  It 
seems  I  was  taken  away  by  the  nurse  the  night  of  my 
birth,  and  left  on  the  shore,  where  aunty  found  me. 
What  has  become  of  their  infant  is  yet  unknown,  but  it 
may  be  it,  too,  was  saved,  and  will  yet  be  found.  How 
singularly  things  are  turning  out  !  Wlio  would  cvei 
think  we  were  brother  and  sister?  Do  hasten  home, 
dear  Louis,  more  hearts  than  one  are  longing  for  your 
coming.  I  have  a  thousand  things  yet  to  tell  you,  bu.t 
fou  know  I  hate  writing,  so  I  will  wait  until  I  see  you. 
Your  aff ecti  anate  sUUr,  OiPtT. " 


III 


!. 


•  { :M!  •  /» 


r 


fi*^;;  -I 


J^ 


T/f£    HEIRESS. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


y^' 


THE   HEIRESS   OP   SUf^SET    HALL. 


I 


"A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warm,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still  and  bright, 
With  something  ot  an  angel  light." — Wou>SWO>.TH, 


SC'i 


1;- 


(•V 


Hfc  darkened  rooms,  the  hushed  footfalls,  the 
whispered  words,  the  anxious  faces,  betoken 
tlie  presence  of  sickness.  Like  some  long, 
dark  efiiL;y,  Miss  llaijjar  lies  on  her  bed,  pros- 
trated in  l)o(ly  and  mind,  and  sick  unto  death 
By  her  side  sits  Celeste,  in  a  quiet  dress  of  soft  gray, 
her  golden  hair  lyinu^  i'^  bands  on  her  fair  cheeks,  pale 
and  thin  with  io.ig  days  and  nights  of  unceasing  watch- 
ing. 

Nevei-  had  the  tender  love  and  cherishing  care  of  the 
young  girl  been  so  nianifested  as  in  the  sick-room  of 
her  benelaclre^s.  Night  and  day,  like  some  angel  of 
mercy,  she  hovered  over  the  roucii  of  the  invalid — 
ready  at  the  slighlcsi  nioiion  to  hold  the  cup  to  her 
jmrched  lipis,  or  baihe  iior  burning  brow.  Nothing 
could  induce  her  lo  leave  her  side,  save,  when  tired 
Nature  could  watch  no  longer,  she  sought  her  couch  to 
catch  a  few  jinjuieuis*  sleep.  And  Miss  Hagar,  with  the 
usual  fretful  waywardness  of  illness,  would  have  no 
one  near  her  but  Celeste.  Gipsy  had  offered  her  services 
us  assistant  aurse,  but  was  most  promptly  rejected. 

*  I  want  Celeste  Where  is  Celeste?"  was  ever  the 
crv  of  the  invahd. 

.t  was  the  second  week  of  Miss  IJagar's  illness.  For 
•art  she  had  been   raving   delirio;'sly,  recognizing  no 


THB   HEIRESS, 


S«5 


one,  not  even  Celeste.  Toward  the  close  of  the  tenth 
day  she  grew  worse,  and  the  doctor  pronounced  the 
crisis  of  her  disease  at  hand. 

Evening  was  approachin;^,  the  evening  of  a  bleak 
Jaauary  day.  The  snow  was  falling  drearily  wi',hout , 
and  the  cold  wind  wailed  and  moaned  around  the  lonely 
house.  The  fire,  burning  low  in  the  grate,  cast  a  red» 
fitful,  uncertain  light  tlirough  the  room,  giving  every- 
thing an  unearthly,  spectral  appearance.  Celeste  sat  by 
the  window,  her  chin  resting  on  her  handj  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  desolate  prospect  without,  her  mind  and  heart  fai 
away — far  away.  Her  face  was  wet  with  tears,  but  she 
knew  it  not  ;  sobs,  long  and  deep,  that  she  struggled  in 
vain  to  repress,  swelled  her  bosom.  Never  in  her  life 
had  she  felt  so  utterly  desolate  ;  yet  a  sort  of  awe 
mingled  with  her  tears,  as  she  felt  herself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  death. 

Night  fell  in  storm  and  darkness.  In  the  deep  gloom, 
nothing  could  be  discerned  save  the  white  ;  unearthly 
light  of  the  drifting  snow.  Celeste  arose,  drew  the  cur- 
tain, lit  a  small  lamp,  and  was  about  to  resume  her  seat, 
«(^hen  she  heard  her  name  pronounced  by  the  lips  of  the 
invalid. 

In  a  moment  she  was  bending  over  her.  Reason  had 
returned  to  its  throne  ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  many 
weeks.  Miss  Hagar  recognized  her. 

"Thank  God  I"  exclaimed  Celeste,  joyfully.  "  Dear 
Miss  Hagar,  do  you  not  know  me  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Celeste,"  said  the  invalid,  passing  her 
hand  across  her  eyes,  as  if  to  clear  away  a  mist.  "  I  have 
been  ill,  have  I  not  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  now  you  will  recover.  I  feared  you  would 
never  speak  to  me  more  ;  but  now  you  wiil  get  well,  and 
wc  will  be  nappy  together  once  more." 

^  No,  child,  I  will  never  get  well.     Somethiug  her« 


'  I 


\\ 


'm' 


rif 


"it;' 


JM 


7y/i^     IfEfRESS. 


tells  me  that  I  am  called,"  said  Miss  Hagar,  B3.emnl]r, 
iayiiig  her  lju:id  o>  her  heart.  *'I  am  sinking  fast,  and 
perhaps  I  may  never  see  the  morning  dawn.  I  wish  I 
could  see  ihc:n  all  before  I  die.  Send  for  my  brother 
and  Archie  Rivers,  and  little  Gipsy,  and  Minnetle ! 
Poor  Minnette  !  I  liave  been  harsh  to  her  sometimes,  I 
am  afraid ;  and  1  would  ask  lier  pardon  before  I  depart. 
Why  dijn't  you  send  for  them,  Celeste?" 

Wliat  shtiuid  she  do  ?  What  ought  she  to  say  ? 
How  could  she  tell  her  wliat  had  happened? 

"Dear  ^Ii^s  Ilagar,"  she  said,  gently,  "neither  the 
doctor,  nor  Miianettc,  wor  Archie,  are  at  home.  But  if 
you  will  see  Gipsy,  I  will  go  for  her." 

"All  gone  !  all  ^one  !"  murmured  the  sick  woman, 
feebly,  *'  scattered  far  and  wide.  But  you,  Celeste,  you 
have  stood  by  me  throui^h  all  ;  yuu  have  been  the  staff 
and  comfort  of  my  old  age.  May  God  bless  you  for  it ! 
Truly  has  he  said  :  '  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters,  and 
it  shall  return  unto  thee  after  many  days.'  But,  child, 
have  you  never  wondered  who  you  were  ;  have  you  never 
wished  to  know  who  were  your  parents?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  often!"  replied  Celeste,  eagerly,  "but  I 
knew,  when  the  proper  thne  came,  you  would  tell  mc; 
so  I  never  asked." 

"  Well,  that  time  ha;;  come  at  last.  It  is  but  little  I 
can  tell ;  for  I  neither  know  who  you  are,  nor  what  is 
your  name.  The  way  you  came  under  my  care  is  simply 
this: 

"One  night,  as  I  was  rettrning  home  from  the  vil* 
lage,  at  ap.  unusually  late  hour,  a  little  girl  came  running 
•ut  from  a  wretched  hovel,  and  begged  mef)  enter  with 
her,  for  her  aunty,  as  she  called  her,  was  dying.  I  went 
in,  and  found  an  old  woman  lying  on  a  heap  of  rags  and 
•tr&w,  whose  end  was  evidently  at  hand.  I  did  what  1 
could  for  her ;  but   I  saw   she  was  sinkinf;  fast     Her 


THE    HEIRESS. 


3«7- 


whole  care  seemed  to  be  for  her  little  gii I,  who  crouched 
At  the  foot  of  the  bed,  weeping  bitterly.  In  her  anxiety 
for  her,  she  seemed  to  forget  her  own  sufferings. 

"  *  What  will  she  do  when  1  am  gone  ?  Who  will  pro- 
icct  her  pnd  care  for  her  in  this  selfish  world  ?" 

*'  *  Is  she  an  orphan  ?"  I  asked. 

"'That  I  do  not  know.  The  child  is  a  foundling, 
And  no  relation  to  me  ;  but  I  love  her  as  though  she 
were  my  own  child.  Oh  !  what  will  become  of  her 
when  I  am  gone  ?" 

"  *  And  have  you  no  clue  to  her  birth  i** 

"  *  None.    One  Christmas  eve,  about  twelve  years  ag^o, 

»Tiy  husband  was  caught  in  a  storm  coming  from  A . 

As  he  was  hurrying  along  by  the  shore  road,  he  saw  a 
sleigh  in  advance  of  him,  and  hastened  on  in  hopes  to 
overtake  it.  In  his  hurry  his  foot  struck  against  some- 
thing on  the  ground,  and  he  stumbled  and  fell.  As  he 
arose,  he  turned  to  examine  it ;  and  judge  of  his  sur- 
prise at  finding  it  to  be  a  young  infant,  wrapped  in  a 
long  shawl,  and  sweetly  sleeping.  In  his  astonishment 
he  stood  rooted  to  the  ground,  unable  to  move,  and  the 
sleigh  passed  on,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight.  It  was  evi- 
dent to  him  that  the  inmates  of  the  sleigh  had  either  left 
it  there  to  perish,  or  it  had  accidentally  fallen  out.  In 
either  case,  the  only  thing  he  could  do  was  to  take  it 
oome,  which  he  did  ;  and  handed  it  to  me,  half  frozen, 
tie  next  morning.  Our  own  little  girl  was  dead  ;  and 
Cilis  child  seemed  so  like  a  god-send  to  fill  her  place,  thut 
I  received  it  with  joy,  and  resolved  to  adopt  it,  if  it^ 
parents  never  claimed  it.  For  months  we  lived  in  tiie 
constant  dread  that  it  would  be  taken  from  us  ;  but  years 
passed  on,  and  no  inquiry  was  ever  made  concerning  it. 
We  named  her  Celeste ;  for  there  was  something  trul)? 
cele&tial  in  her  sweet,  angel-like  face,  and  loving  nature 
&ad  never  did  parents  love  any  only  child  as  we  did  her 


A 


% 


.    ! 


I-S't 


'•1 

1;..  5-^!  '■ 


Is' ■ 


fitj 


m. 


W 


f«« 


r^ig"    HEFRESS. 


*'  *  We  were  in  very  comfortable  circ  imstances  thr  n 
but  when  Celeste  was  about  eight  years  old,  my  husUmj 
died  ;  and  after  that  everything  seemed  against  us.  \Vc 
got  poorer  and  poorer  ;  and  I  was  forced  to  take  in  sew- 
ing, to  keep  us  from  starving.  For  nearly  four  years  \ 
worked  at  this,  stitching  away  from  daylight  till  dark  , 
and  then  scarcely  able  to  keep  soul  and  body  together. 
Celeste  assisted  me  nobly  ;  but  at  length  my  health  begati 
to  fail,  and  T  resolved  to  leave  the  city.  My  husband's 
friends  had  formerly  resided  here,  and  I  was  in  hopes  of 
finding  them  ;  but  when  I  came,  I  learned  that  they  were 
all  gone.  Last  night  I  was  taken  dangerously  ill  ;  and 
now  I  feel  that  I  am  dying  ;  and  my  poor  Celeste  will  be 
left  utterly  friendlet^^s  and  alone.  She  is  beautiful,  as 
you  see  ;  and  v/hat  her  fate  may  be,  should  she  live  to 
grow  up,  I  date  not  think  of.     My  poor,  poor  Celeste  !* 

"  The  deep  afflicti(m  of  the  dying  woman,  and  the 
fteartfelt  grief  of  the  child,  touched  me  deeply.  I  re- 
solved that  the  poor  orphan  should  not  be  left  to  strug- 
gle alone  through  the  world.  1  was  not  rich,  but  still  I 
was  able  to  provide  for  her.  In  a  few  brief  words  I  told 
her  my  resolution  ;  and  never  shall  I  forget  the  fervent 
gratitude  that  beamed  from  the  dying  eyes,  sts  she  list- 
ened. 

"  *  May  God  forever  bless  you  !'  she  exclaimed.  *  and 
may  the  Father  of  the  fatherless  reward  you  for  this!' 

"That  night  she  died;  and  next  day  she  was  buried 
at  Uit:  C7vpci>sc  of  the  parish.  I  took  you  home  ;  am] 
since  ther?  y;Hi  Lnve  been  my  sole  earthly  joy,  Celeste; 
and  now  that  I  am  dying,  I  h^.zve  you,  as  a  legacy  your 
hist  or  v.  Perhaps  some  dav  you  may  yet  discover  Tour 
paren'.b,  if  they  J've." 

UticT'v  e-ihar»sted.  Miss,  Hagar's  lips  ceased  to  move. 
During  ?.)\  the  tme  -Ke  had  been  speaking,  Celeste  bad 
renaaioed  $  >  a  iiveied  to  the  spot,  with  an  emotion  un- 


.1 


THE    HEIRESS. 


1<« 


noticed  by  Miss  Hagar.  Her  pale  face  grew  whiter  ami 
whiter,  lier  eyes  were  slowly  dilating,  her  lips  parted  ; 
until,  when  the  spinster  ceased,  her  head  dropped  on  her 
bauds,  while  she  exclaimed,  liaK  aluud  : 

"  Can  I  believe  my  ears  ?  Then  I  am  that  other  child 
left  to  perish  on  the  beach  tiiat  stormy  Christmas  Eve 
Good  heavens  !  Can  it  be  that  I  am  the  child  of  Esther 
Erliston  ?     Have  I  discovered  who  I  am  at  last  ?" 

"  What  are  you  saying  there  ?"  said  Miss  Hag^r, 
'cebly. 

"Miss  Hagar!"  exclaiujed  Celeste,  starting  with 
sudden  energy  to  her  feet,  "  I  am  going  to  Sunset  Hall, 
for  Squire  Erliston.  You  wwvA  repeat  this  story  to  him  ; 
it  concerns  him  more  than  you  are  aware  of,  and  will 
clear  up  a  mystery  he  cannot  now  penetrate." 

•'  As  you  please,  child,"  said  Miss  Hagar,  too  weak  to 
resist ;  "  but  you  will  not  stay  long  ?" 

"No;  I  will  be  back  in  less  than  an  hour,"  replied 
Celeste,  whose  cheeks  were  now  flushed,  and  her  eye 
burning  with  excitement,  as  siie  seized  her  cloak  and 
liood,  and  hurried  into  the  kitchen. 

Curly,  their  only  servaiit,  was  dozing  in  her  chair  b' 
the  hearth.  Rousing  her  up,  Celeste  sent  her  in  _ 
watch  with  her  patient  until  her  rtturn. 

"Remember  you    must   not   fall   asleep  until  my 
turn  ;  I  will  be  back  very  shortly,"  said  the  young 
ticss,  as  she  tied  on  her  mantle. 

**  But  laws  !  misses,  you  ain't  a  goin'  out  in  dc  storm 
t!?'n*ght  !"  said  Curly,  opening  her  eyes  in  wonder. 

"  Ves,  I  nuist,  for  an  hour  or  so.  Secure  the  door, 
and  do  not  leave  Miss  Ha<_;ar  until  I  come  back,"  said 
Celeste,  as  she  (opened  the  door. 

A  blinding  drift  of  snow  met  her  in  the  face  ;  a  fierce 
gust  of  wind  pierced  through  her  wrappings,  and  lent 
the  embers  on  the  hearth  whirling  redly  through  th« 


I       I 

M 


J, 

i: 


kiH'''-5';, 


1 , 


L".< 


I' 


370 


Ti^i^"     IlEIREMS. 


room.  It  required  all  her  r.trongth  to  close  the  dooi 
after  her,  but  she  succeeded,  after  two  or  three  efforts, 
and  stepped  out  into  the  wild  wintry  storm. 

At  lengiii  St.  Mark's  was  reached;  and  looking  up, 
she  could  see  ihc  welcumo  lights  of  Sunset  Hall  stream- 
ing redly  'ind  wartnly  ow  ihc  cold,  drifting  snow.  Ele- 
vated above  the  village,  its  windows  glowing  with  ligiit, 
it  looked  the  very  picture  of  a  home  of  ease  and  luxury. 

The  sight  imparted  new  euergy  to  her  drooping 
limbs;  and  hurrying  stiil  more  rapidly  forward,  in  five 
minutes  more  she  stood  betore  the  astonished  inmates 
of  the  hall,  all  white  with  falling  snow. 

For  a  wonder  Gipsy  was  at  home.  She  sat  gazing 
into  the  glowing  lire — a  sad,  dreamy  look  on  her  usually 
bright,  dark  face — iier  little  hands  folded  listlessly  in 
her  lap,  thinking  of  one  far  away  ;  the  squire,  utterly 
disregarding  all  the  laws  of  etiquette,  was  smoking  his 
pipe  placidly  in  his  armchair  ;  and  Mrs.  Gower  sat 
dozing  in  the  chimney  corner:  Lizzie  had  been  driven 
to  her  chamber  by  the  choking  fumes  of  the  tobacco. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  Celeste  !  what  has  happened  ? 
What  has  brought  you  out  to-night  in  this  storm  ?"  ex- 
claimed Gipsy,  springing  in  dismay  to  her  feet,  as 
Celeste — her  garments  covered  with  snow-flakes — stood 
before  them,  like  a  moving  frost-maiden. 

The  squire,  equally  dismayed,  had  taken  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  sat  staring  at  her  in  utter  bewilder- 
ment;  while  Mrs.  Gower,  roused  from  her  slumbers. 
Jirose  from  her  seat,  and  drew  her  over  to  the  fire. 

*'No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Gower,  I  cannot  sit,"  said 
Celeste,  hurriedly.  '  Miss  Hagar  is  dying,  and  has  a^j 
important  revelation  to  make  to  you,  sir.  It  is  necessary 
70U  should  hear  it.  Will  you  accompany  me  back  ?' 
■he  said,  turning  to  the  squire. 

Dying !  important  revelations  !    Lord  bless  ms  I* 


M 


rl' 


THE    HEIRESS, 


37  > 


ejaculated  the  squire;  "wont  it  do  to-morrow /"  he 
added,  as  a  wild  biasi  made  the  windows  rattle.  "  I 
don't  care  about  vcntuiinj^  out  in  tliis  storm." 

**  You  siiali  i;o,  Guardy,"  said  Gipsy,  rising  impet- 
uously, "  and  I'll  go,  too.  Sit  down  and  warm  yourself, 
Celeste — we'll  be  ready  in  five  minutes.  Aunty  Gower. 
please  ring  for  Jupe.  Pity  if  you  can't  venture  out  it: 
the  storm,  when  Celeste  h:it>  walked  here  in  it  totellyoii. 
Jupe,"  siie  added,  as  t!]ai  sablo  individual  entered,  "  be 
off  and  bring  round  the  carriage,  and  don't  be  longer 
than  five  minutes,  at  your  peril  !  Here,  Totty  !  Totty  ! 
bring  down  my  hood,  and  mantle,  and  furs  ;  and  your 
master's  hat,  gloves,  and  greatcoat.     Quick,  the^c   ■" 

Utterly  bewiUlered  by  ilic  rapidity  with  whicli  these 
orders  were  given,  the  squire,  unable  to  resist,  found 
himself  enveloped  in  his  lur-lined  greatcoat,  seated  ii 
tnc  carriage,  bet.vcen  tlie  two  girls,  ere  he  found  voice  to 
protest  against  sucii  summary  proceedings. 

The  fierceness  of  the  storm,  which  increased  in  vio- 
lence, precluded  the  possibility  of  entering  into  conver- 
sation ;  and  the  explanation  was,  therefore,  of  necessity, 
deferred  until  they  stood  safely  within  the  cozy  kitchen 
of  Valley  Cottage. 

In  a  few  brief  wcrds,  Celeste  gave  them  to  under- 
stand that  it  concerned  that  "  other  child,"  left  that  event- 
ful Christmas  eve  c  a  the  bleak  stormy  beach.  This  was 
sufficient  to  rivet  their  attention  ;  and  the  squire,  in  his 
anxiety  and  impatience,  forced  his  way  into  tiic  sick- 
room, and  stood  by  the  bed-side  of  Miss  Hagar. 

**  Sorry  lo  see  you  so  sick.  Miss  Hagar  ;  '-on  my  life  I 
am.  I  never  expected  to  see  you  confined  to  your  bed. 
Celeste — Miss  Pearl,  I  mean — has  told  me  you  have 
something  of  the  greatest  importance  to  communicate 
to  me." 

"  I  do  not  see  how  it  can  possibly  concern  7011, 


j 


I7» 


THE    HEIRESS, 


:  I; 

1' 

i  1 

,     .'If 

f  <  ' 

,  -.i'^ 

f  "I    '' 

ft'-- 


L^, 


Squire  Erliston,"  said  Miss  Hagar,  f aintlj ;  ''but  sinci 
it  is  Celeste's  desire,  I  have  no  objection  to  relato  to 
jrou  wh;.it  1  liavc  already  told  her.  Oh  I"  said  the  sufferer, 
turning  wver  with  a  groan. 

"Curly,  leave  the  room,"  said  Gipsy,  who  now  en- 
tered ;  while  CcJestc  tenderly  raised  the  head  of  the  in- 
valid, and  lield  a  strengthening  draught  to  her  lips 
EJrokenly,  feebly,  and  with  many  interruptions  did  the 
dytwg  woman  repeat  her  tale.  Wonder,  incredulity,  and 
amazement  were  alternately  depicted  on  the  counte- 
nances of  the  iquire  and  Gipsy,  as  they  listened.  She 
ceased  at  last  ;  and  totally  exhausted,  turned  wearily 
aside. 

"Then  you.  Celeste,  are  that  child.  You  are  the 
heiress  of  Sunset  Hall  !  Wonderful  !  wonderful  I" 
ejaculated  GIp:  y,  p^ile  witii  breathless  interest. 

"  And  my  gr.indcliild  !"  said  the  squire,  gazing  upon 
her  like  one  bewildered. 

"  Hush  !"  said  Celeste,  in  a  choking  voice,  "  she  is 
dying." 

It  was  even  so.  The  mysterious  shadow  of  death 
had  fallen  on  that  grim  face,  softening  its  gaunt  outline 
into  a  look  ot  strange,  deep  awe.  The  eyes  had  a  far- 
off,  mystic  gaze,  as  if  striving  to  behold  something  dim 
and  distant. 

All  had  fallen  on  their  knees,  and  Celeste's  chokiog 
sobs  aione  broke  the  silence. 

The  sound  seemed  to  disturb  Miss  Hagar.  She 
turned  her  face,  with  a  troubled  look,  on  the  grief-bowed 
f*ead  of  the  young  girl. 

"  Do  not  weep  for  me,  Celeste,  but  for  yourself.  Who 
will  care  for  you  when  I  am  drad  ?" 

"  I  will  '"  said  the  squire,  ^  -imnly  ;  "she  is  my  own 
flesh  and  blood,  and  all  that  I  e  is  hers.  She  is  th« 
loog-lost,  the  rightf  il  Heiress         lount  Sunset  Halt" 


""LAST    SCENE    OF    ALL,* 


J7J 


Sknci 

lattt  to 
ifforer, 


ire  the 
;rful  !" 

g  upon 

she  is 

\  death 

outline 

a  far- 

Qg  dim 

loking 

-.    She 
bowed 

.  Who 

J  own 

is  th« 


A  smile  of  i(ieCfi*bie  peace  settled  on  that  djing  face 
"Then  I  can  go  in  peace,"   she  said;  *' my   last  care  i« 
gone.     Good- bye,  Celeste.     God  bless  you  all  !     Te»i  ny 
brother  I  spoke  of  liim  :  and  ask  MinneiLc  to  forgive  me. 
Minnette — Minnelie " 

The  wordvS  died  away.  She  spoke  no  men:  !Ier 
long,  weary  pilgrimage  was  over,  and  Miss  Hagai  was 
At  rest. 

*'  Don't  cry — don't  cry,"  said  the  squire,  dashing  a 
tear  from  his  own  eyes,  as  he  stooped  over  the  gntf- 
convulsed  form  of  Celeste.  *•  She's  gone  the  way  of  atl 
fiesh,  the  way  we  must  all  go  some  day.  Everybody 
must  die,  you  know  ;  it's  only  natural  they  should.  *  In 
the  midst  of  death  we  are  in  life,'  as  Solomon  says." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


14 


LAST     SCENE     OF     ALL. 


i> 


•*  Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  aleet,  or  tnow, 
We  will  stand  ty  each  other,  however  it  blow — 
Oppression,  an  i  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain. 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain." 

— LoMonuxow 

WO  months  have  passed  away.  It  is  a  balmy, 
genial  day  in  March.  Never  shone  the  sun 
brighter,  never  looked  St.  Mark's  fairer  ;  but 
within  Sunset  Hall  all  is  silent  and  gloomy. 
The  very  servants  step  around  on  tiptoe, 
with  hushed  voices  and  noiseless  footfalls.  The  squire 
is  not  in  his  usual  seat,  and  the  parlor  is  tenanted  oniy 
by  Gipsy  and  Celeste.  The  former  is  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room,  with  a  face  almost  deadly  pale,  with 
•ternlj^ompressed  lips,  and  sad,  gloomy  eyes.     Celeste 


\ 


^m^*'^i 


Iff 


374 


*'LAS2     SCENE    OF    ALL," 


i'i'j 


W 


w. 


mi- 
W 


( 


is  koeeling  like  one  in  prayer,  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands  ;  she,  too,  is  pale  with  awe  and  horror.  To-day, 
Dr.  Wiseman  dies  on  the  scaffold.  They  needed  no  evidence 
to  coiKlemn  him.  Fear  seemed  to  have  paralyzed  his 
cowardly  soul,  and  he  confessed  all  ;  and  fiom  the 
moment  he  heard  his  sentence,  he  settled  down  ij  a 
stujjur  of  despair,  from  which  nothing  could  arouse  him. 

The  sound  of  carriage-wheels  coming  up  the  avenue 
ruiised  them  both,  at  last.  Celeste  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  both  'otood  breathless,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Squire  Erliston  entered. 

"  VV^ell  .'"  came  from  tlie  eager  lips  of  Gipsy. 

"All  is  over,"  said  the  squire,  gloomily,  sinking  into 
a  seat.  '*  I  visited  him  in  prison,  but  he  did  not  knov; 
me —he  only  stared  at  me  with  a  look  of  stupid  imbecility. 
I  could  not  arouse  him  for  a  long  time,  until,  at  last,  I 
mentioned  your  name,  Gipsy  ;  then  he  held  out  his  arras 
before  him,  as  well  as  his  chains  would  allow,  and  cr'ed 
out,  in  a  voice  of  agony  1  will  never  forget  :  'Keep  her 
oil!  keep  her  off  !  she  will  murder  me  !'  Seeing  I  could 
do  nothing  for  him,  I  came  away;  and  in  that  state  of 
stupid  insensibility,  he  was  launched  into  eternity." 

Celcbte,  sick  and  faint  with  terror,  sank  into  a  seat 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  Gipsy  shud- 
dered slightly. 

"  And  so  he  has  perished — died  in  his  sins,"  she  said, 
^t  last.  "'■  Once,  I  vowed  never  to  forgive  him  ;  but  1 
retract  that  oath.  May  heaven  forgive  him,  as  I  do  ! 
And  now,  I  never  want  to  hear  his  name  again." 

"  But  Minnette,  where  can  she  be  ?  Who  will  tell  hci 
•>f  this .'"  said  Celeste,  looking  up. 

"  It  is  most  strange  what  can  have  become  of  her," 
said  the  squire.  '*  I  liave  spared  no  pains  to  discover 
her,  but,  so  far,  all  has  been  in  vain.  Heaven  alone 
knows  whethei  she  is  living  or  dead." 

"  It  is  like  her  usual  eccentricity,"  said  Gipsy.  "  I  know 


*"  LAST    SCENE    OF    ALL, 


%t 


171 


in  her 
'o-day, 

["idrnce 
led    hi  J 

im  the 
fi  ia  a 
|sc  him. 
ivenue 
^r  feet, 
and 


ig  into 

ecility. 
last,  I 
IS  arms 
i  cred 
cp  her 
[  could 
:ate  of 

a  seat 
shud- 

le  said, 

;  but  I 

I  do! 

ell  her 

her," 

scovcr 

alone 

know 


Aot  where  she  is,  yet  I  feel  a  sort  of  presentment  we 
will  meet  her  again." 

*  >K  4i  *  *  • 

"Gipsy,  come  licre,"  called  good  Mrs.  Gower,  one 
ia;,  about  a  fortnight  after,  as  that  young  lady  passed 
\iy  her  room  on  licr  way  down  stairs. 

*'  Wcl).  what  is  ii?"  said  Gipsy,  entering,  and  stand- 
ing with  her  back  to  liic  door. 

"Just  look  at  this  likeness  ;  have  you  ever  seen  any 
body  like  ii  ?" 

Gipsy  took  it,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly. 

'*VVcll,"  said  she,  at  Icnj^th,  "if  I  were  a  little  less 
tawny,  and  had  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair,  I  should  say 
it  looked  remarkably  like  myself — only  I  never,  thf  best 
of  times,  had  such  a  pretty  face.' 

**  Weil,  1  was  just  struck  by  its  resemblance  to  you. 
I  think  it  must  be  your  mother's  picture." 

"  My  mother's  picture !  My  dear  Aunty  Gower, 
whatever  put  such  an  absurd  notion  into  your  head  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  quite  sure  it  is.  Its  very  resemblance 
to  you  proves  this  ;  besides,  I  found  it  on  your  poor 
father's  neck  when  he  was  dead." 

"  It  is  a  sweet  face,"  said  Gipsy,  heaving  a  wistful 
little  sigh.  •'  Wiio  knows  whether  the  original  be  liv- 
ing or  dead  ?  Oh,  Aunty  Gower  !  it  may  be  that  I  still 
have  a  mother  living  in  some  quarter  of  the  globe,  who 
6  ignorant  she  yet  has  a  daughter  alive.  If  I  could 
only  think  so  I  would  travel  the  world  over  to  find  her." 

At  this  moment  Totty  burst  into  the  room,  her  black 
face  all  aglow  with  delight. 

"  Oh,  misses  I  Oh,  Misses  Sour  !  Oh,  Misses  Gipsy! 
I^uess  who's  'rived,"  she  breathlessly  exclaimed. 

"Who?  who?"  exclaimed  both,  eagerly. 

"Young    Marse    Louis  !    he's    down    in    de    parlor 


!'''  I  ^^ 


M 


wid- 


But  without  waiting  to  hear  more,  Gipsy  sprang  from 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Sdonces 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14SS0 

(716)  872-4503 


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LAST    SCENE    OF    ALL.** 


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1..';   '- 


the  room,  burst  into  the  parL^r,  and  beheld  Louis  stkid* 
ing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  the  living  counter- 
part of  the  picture  she  had  just  seen,  leaning  on  his  arm  ! 

"Gipsy!  my  sister!"  he  exclaimed,  but  before  Hq 
could  advance  toward  her,  a  wild,  passionate  cry  br:;k-j 
from  the  lips  of  the  strange  lady,  as  she  sprang  forward, 
and  clasped  the  astonished  Gipsy  in  her  arms. 

**  My  daughter !  my  daughter !"  she  cried,  covering 
her  face  with  burning  kisses. 

Gipsy  grew  deadly  pale  ;  she  strove  to  speak  ;  but 
wonder  and  joy  chained  her  ever-ready  tongue. 

"She  is  your  mother,  Gipsy,"  said  Louis,  answering 
her  wild  look.  "  I  leave  her  to  explain  all  to  you  ;  your 
letters  first  revealed  all  to  me.  But  Celeste — where  is 
she  ?" 

"  In  the  drawing-room,  reading,"  was  the  reply. 

He  hastily  quitted  the  room,  and  noiselessly  opened 
the  drawing-room  door ;  Celeste  was  there,  but  not  read- 
ing. She  was  lying  on  a  lounge  her  face  hidden  in  thfi 
cushions,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  eyes  to  repress  her 
falling  tears,  her  heart  yearning  for  the  living  and  the 
dead.  Her  thoughts  were  of  him  she  believed  far  away ; 
what  were  wealth  and  honors  to  her,  without  him  ?  Her 
tears  fell  fast  and  faster,  while  she  involuntarily  ex* 
claimed  :     "  Oh,  Louis,  Louis  !  where  arc  you  now  ?" 

"  Here,  by  your  side,  Celeste,  never  to  leave  *t  more  !" 
ke  answered,  folding  her  suddenly  in  his  arms. 

"  'Twas  his  own  voice,  she  could  not  err  I 
Throughout  the  breathing  world's  exteiC. 
There  was  but  one  such  voice  for  her — 
So  kind,  so  soft,  so  eloquent." 

With  a  wild  cry,  she  unclasped  her  hands  from  hei 
eyes  and  looked  up — looked  up  to  encounter  those  dear 
dark  eyes,  she  had  never  expected  to  see  m»re. 

Great  was  the  surprise  of  everybody,  at  this  double 
arriyal ;  and  many  were  the  explanations  that  followed. 


±""' 

-jk 

1 

i^-,- 

■  ^f 

_l-% 

lli 

\M:. 

''LAST    SCENE    OF    ALL.* 


Ill 


|s  stk.id' 
:ounter' 
\is  arm  ! 
^fore  hi 

[orward, 

[overing 

ik  ;  but 


swering 
;  your 
J?here  is 


opened 
ot  read- 
n  in  thj5 
ress  her 
and  the 
r  away ; 
»?  Her 
rily  ex* 
)w?" 
more !" 


9m  her 
le  dear 

double 
lowed 


There  was  Louis,  who  had  to  explain  how  he  bad  met 
Madame  Evelini,and  how  he  had  learned  her  story  ;  and 
how,  on  reading  Gipsy's  account  of  the  tale  told  by  Mrs. 
Donne,  he  had  known  immediately  who  was  her  mother 
Then,  though  the  task  was  a  painful  one,  he  was  forced 
Jo  recur  to  the^  fnte  of  Minnetl:e,  and  set  their  anxiety  as 
rest  about  her.  She  had  gone  to  Italy  with  some  friends, 
he  said  ;  he  met  her  there,  and  learned  from  her  she  was 
about  to  take  the  vail,  and  there  they  would  find  her, 
safe.  Then  Gipsy  had  to  recount,  at  length,  all  that  had 
transpired  since  his  departure — which  was  but  briefly 
touched  upon  in  her  letters.. 

It  was  a  strange  meeting,  when  the  two  living  wives 
of  the  dead  husband  stood  face  to  face.  Lizzie,  too  list- 
less and  languid  to  betray  much  emotion  of  any  kind, 
listened  with  faint  curiosity  ;  but  tears  sprang  into  the 
eyes  of  Madame  Evelini,  as  she  stooped  to  kiss  the  pale 
brow  of  the  little  lady.  She  refused  to  be  called  Mrs. 
Oranmore  ;  saying  that  Lizzie  had  held  the  title  longest, 
and  it  should  still  be  hers. 

"  And  now  there  is  one  other  matter  to  arrange,"  said 
Louis,  taking  the  hand  of  Celeste ;  "  and  that  is,  your 
consent  to  our  union.  Will  you  bestow  upon  me,  sir, 
the  hand  of  your  grandchild  ?" 

"To  be  sure,  I  will,"  said  the  squire,  joyfully.  "I 
was  just  going  to  propose,  myself,  that  we  should  end 
the  play  with  a  wedding.  We've  all  been  in  the  dismals 
long  enough,  but  a  marriage  will  set  us  all  right  again. 
Come  here,  you  baggage,"  turning  to  Celeste,  who  was 
blushing  most  becomingly  ;  "  will  you  have  this  grace- 
less scamp,  here,  for  your  lord  and  master  ?  He  needs 
somebody  to  look  after  him,  or  he'll  be  running  to  Tim- 
buctoo,  or  Italy,  or  some  of  those  heathenish  places,  to- 
morrow or  next  day — just  a^  he  did  before.  Do  you 
consent  to  take  charge  of  him,  and  keep  him  in  trim  fof 
the  rest  of  bis  life  ^" 


'I 


'■ 


^  '•■'■' ^i': 


'■■■■■\        .  :j 

*.-.  .  ii 

37^ 


Z.^.S7    SCENE    OF    ALL.*" 


It 


:♦■;. 


Wr- 


J 

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1 

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^ 

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f 

,1 

*'  Vc-es,  sir,"  said  Celeste,  looking  down,  and  speak 
ingin  the  slow,  liesitating  tone  of  her  orJ.ldhood. 

"  Hooray  !  there's  a  sei  sible  answer  for  you.  Now  I 
propose  that  the  weddini;  takes  place  forthwith.  Where's 
the  good  of  losing  time  ?  *  Never  delay  till  to-morrow 
what  you  can  do  to-day,'  as  Solomon  says.  What's  your 
opinion,  good  folks  ?" 

"  Mine's  decidedly  the  same  as  yours,  sir,"  said  Louis, 
promptly. 

"  Then  suppose  the  affair  comes  off  to-morrow,"  said 
the  squire,  in  a  business-like  tone. 

'*  Oh  !  no,  no  !"  said  Celeste,  with  such  a  look  of 
alarm,  that  the  others  laughed  outright ;  "  a  month — two 
months — " 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  squire,  gruflSy,  **  two  months 
indeed — no.  nor  two  weeks,  either.  Next  Thursday,  at 
the  furthest.  You  can  have  all  your  trumpery  ready  by 
that  time." 

"  You  will  have  to  yield,  Celeste,"  said  Gipsy. 
'*  Just  see  how  imploringly  Louis  looks  !" 

"  That's  too  soon,"  said  Celeste,  still  pleading  for  a 
reprieve.     "  1  never  could  be  ready " 

"Yes,  you  could,"  cut  in  Gipsy.  "  I'll  engage  to  have 
everything  prepared ;  and,  like  Marshal  Ney,  when  I 
enter  the  field,  the  battle  is  won.  Now,  not  anolhfi 
word.  Louis,  can't  you  make  her  hold  her  tongue?  My 
dear  mother,  you  must  try  your  eloquence." 

"You  will  have  to  yield,  my  dear,"  said  Madame, 
tiniling;  "there  is  no  use  attempting  to  resist  this  im- 
petuous daughter  of  mine." 

"  Of  course  there's  not,  said  Gipsy — '*  everybody  does 
as  I  tell  them.  Now,  Louis,  take  the  future  Mrs.  Oran- 
more  out  of  this.  Aunty  Gower  and  I  have  got  to  lay 
our  heads  together  (figuratve)y  speaking)  ;  for  on  oui 
shoulders,  I  suppose,  must  devolve  ail  the  bother  and 
bustle  of  preparaticn." 


'' LAS2     SCENE    OF    ALL, 


379 


^ow  I 
[here's 
jorrow 
|s  your 

'Ouis, 

said 


Gipsy  was  in  her  element  during  the  rest  A  the 
wreck. 

The  wedding  was  to  be  private — the  recent  d<  ith  cf 
Miss  Hagar  and  Dr.  Wiseman  rendering  the  country 
fashion  of  a  ball  in  the  evening  out  of  the  question  ;  but 
still  they  bad  a  busy  time  of  it  in  Sunset  Hall.  It  was 
arranged  that  the  newly-wedded  pair  should  go  abroad 
immediatelv  after  their  marriage,  accompanied  by  Gipsy 
and  her  mother. 

The  wodding-day  dawned,  bright  and  beautiful,  as 
all  wedding-days  should.  Celeste  wished  to  be  married 
in  the  chrrch,  and  no  one  tiiought  of  opposing  her  will. 
Gipsy  j?rood  beside  her,  robed  in  white  ;  and  if  her  face 
rivaled  in  pallor  the  dress  she  wore,  it  was  thinking  o^ 
her  own  gloomy  bridal,  and  of  him  who  had  bade  her 
an  eternal  farewell  that  night.  Mrs.  Govver  was  there, 
looking  very  fat,  and  happy,  and  respectable,  in  the 
venerable  brown  satin,  that  was  never  donned  save  on 
an  occasion  like  the  present.  Lizzie  was  there,  too, 
supported  by  Madame  Eveiini,  and  looking  less  listless 
and  f:'-r  more  cheerlul  than  she  had  been  for  many  a  day. 
ThCiC  was  the  squire,  looking  very  pompous  and  dog- 
matical, waiting  to  give  the  bride  away,  and  repeating, 
inwardly,  all  the  proverbs  lie  could  recollect,  by  way  of 
*ffer'.ng  up  a  prayer  for  their  happiness.  There  was 
Louis,  so  tall,  and  stately,  and  handsome,  looking  the 
K?.i\  happiest  individual  in  existence.  And  lastly,  there 
was  our  own  Celeste — our  "Star  of  the  Valley*  — 
Eweoter  and  fairer  than  ever,  with  her  blushing  face,  and 
drooping  eyes,  and  gentle  heart  fluttering  with  joy  and 
happiness. 

The  church  was  crowded  to  excess  ;  and  a  universal 
buzz  of  admiration  greeted  the  bridal  pair,  as  they 
entered.  Beneath  the  gaze  3f  a  hiindred  eyes  they 
fnoved  up  the  aisle,  and 


I 


380 


*'LAS2     SCEJVE    OF    ALL." 


"  Before  the  altar  now  ([my  stand — th3  br-degroom  and  the  bride  } 
And  who  can  tell  what  luvcrs  feel  in  this,  their  hour  of  pride.** 

A  few  words  and  all  was  over  ;  and  leaning  on  th« 
arm  of  the  proud  and  happy  Louis,  Celeste  received  the 
congratulations  of  her  friends. 

Breakfast  awaited  them  on  their  return  to  the  hall. 
Immediately  after,  they  were  to  start  for  Washington  ^ 
but  before  departing,  Celeste,  turning  to  Louis,  said  : 

"  Before  I  go,  I  would  visit  the  grave  of  poor  Miss 
Hagar.     Come  with  me." 

It  was  not  far  from  Sunset  Hall.  A  white  marbU 
tombstone  marked  the  spot,  bearing  the  inscnption  : 

Sacred   to  the  Memory 

OF 

HAGAR  WISEMAN. 


\ 


i 

■  \ 

i-    . 

. 

i;, 


It' 


'♦1, 


And  underneath  were  the  words  : 

"  Bloued  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord." 

Tears  fell  fast  from  the  eyes  of  Celeste,  as  she  knelt 
by  that  lonely  grave  ;  but  they  were  not  all  tears  of 
sorrow. 


"And  this  is  Venice  !  Bless  me  I  what  a  queer-look' 
ing  old  place  !"  exclaimed  Gipsy,  lying  back  amid  the 
cushions  of  a  gondola.  "  How  in  the  world  do  they 
manage  to  make  everything  look  so  funny  ?  Thii 
gondola,  or  whatever  they  call  it,  is  quite  a  comfortable 
place  to  go  to  sleep  in.  I'll  bring  one  of  them  home 
to  sail  on  the  bay — I  will,  as  sure  as  shooting.  Mayl-e 
It  won't  astonish  the  natives,  slightly.  Well  this  is  a 
nice  climate,  and  no  mistake.  I  don't  think  I'd  have  any 
objection  to  pitching  my  tent  here,  myself.  What's  thii 
tbe  poet  says — 


"LAST    SCENE    OP    ALL." 


J«» 


bride } 
pridd.'* 


on  th« 
ved  the 

le  hall, 
ngton, 
aid  : 
>r  Miss 

marble 
|on : 


e  knelt 
tears  of 


jr-look- 
mid  the 
io  they 
Thii 
or  table 
n  home 
Mayl-e 
lis  is  a 
ive  any 
It's  this 


'*  If  woman  can  make  the  worst  wilderneM  dear, 
Think,  tliink  wiiai  a  imaveii  slie  w(aild  make  of  tbii  ere  !" 

"  Oh,  what  a  shame  !  to  parody  the  *  Light  of  the 
Harem,'  "  said  Celeste,  laughing.  "  But  here  we  are,  on 
land." 

It  was  the  day  after  their  arrival  in  Venice  ;  and,  now, 
under  the  guidance  of  Louis,  they  were  going,  in  a  body, 
to  visit  Minnette. 

They  reached  the  convent,  and  were  admitted  by  the 
old  portress — who,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course, 
ushered  them  into  the  chapel  and  left  them. 

For  a  moment,  the  whole  party  stood  still  in  awe 
The  church  was  hung  with  black,  and  dimly  lighted  b} 
wax  tapers.  Clouds  of  incense  filled  the  air,  and  the 
black  robed  figures  of  the  nuns  looked  like  shadows,  as 
they  knelt  in  prayer.  Many  strangers  were  present,  but 
a  deep,  solemn  hush  reigned  around. 

The  cause  of  all  this  was  soon  explained.  At  the 
foot  of  the  £,ltar,  robed  in  her  nun's  dress,  the  lifeless 
form  of  one  of  the  sisterhood  lay  in  state.  The  beautiful 
face,  shaded  by  the  long,  black  vail,  wore  an  expression 
of  heavenly  peace  ;  the  white  hands  clasped  a  crucifix  to 
the  cold  breast.  A  nan  stood  at  her  head,  and  another 
at  her  feet — holding  lighted  tapers  in  their  hands — so 
still  and  motionless,  that  they  resembled  statues. 

It  was  Minnette  !  Their  hearts  almost  ceased  to  beat,  as 
they  gazed.  The  look  of  deep  calm — of  child-like  rest 
—on  her  face,  forbade  sorrow,  but  inspired  awe.  More 
lovely,  and  far  more  gentle  than  she  had  ever  looked  in 
life,  she  lay,  with  a  smile  still  wreathing  the  sweet, 
beautiful  lips.     The  blind  eyes  saw  at  last. 

Suddenly,  the  deep,  solemn  stillness  was  broken,  by 
the  low,  mournful  wail  of  the  organ  ;  and  like  a  wile 
Ciy,  many  voices  chanted  forth  the  dirge  : 


It 


f  TV; 


j83  '*  /:/Sf.S7'    SCKNK    OF    ALL."* 

'*  Dies  'rae.  dies  ilia 
Solvet  saeclum  in  favilla. 
Pie  Jesu  Dominie, 
Dona  eis  requiem." 

Not  one  heart  there,  but  echoed  tlie  burden  of  the  gnmd 
old  hymn  : 

**  Lord  of  mercy — Jesus  blest, 
Grant  thy  sccvant  light  and  rest  I" 

'  Let  US  go — this  scene  is  loo  much  for  you,"  said 
Louis,  as  Celeste,  clung,  pale  and  trembling,  to  his  arm. 
And  together  they  quitted  the  convent. 

They  were  followed  by  one,  who,  leaning  against  a 
pillar,  had  watched  them  intently  all  the  time.  He 
stepped  after  them  into  the  street  ;  and  Louis,  suddenly 
looking  up,  beheld  him. 

"  Archie  !"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  amazement 
and  delight. 

A  stifled  shriek  broke  from  the  lips  of  Gipsy,  at  the 
name.  Yes,  it  was  indeed  our  old  friend  Archie — no 
longer  the  laughing,  fun-loving  Archie  of  other  days, 
but  looking  pale,  and  thin,  and  almost  stern. 

"  O,  dear  Archie  !  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again  !** 
exclaimed  Celeste,  seizing  one  of  his  hands,  while  Louis 
wrung  the  other  ;  and  Gipsy  drew  back,  turning  first 
red,  and  then  pale,  and  then  red  again.  Madame  Evelini, 
alone,  looked  very  much  puzzled  what  to  make  of  the 
whole  affair. 

"Surely,  you  have  not  forgotten  your  old  friend, 
Gipsy?"  said  Louis,  at  last,  stepping  asidj  and  placicg 
them  face  to  face, 

"  I  am  happy  to  meet  you  again,  Mrs.  Wiseman,"  said 
Archie,  bowing  coldly. 

"  Well,  if  you  are'  said  Louis,  looking  at  him  with 
1  doubtful  expression,  "your  looks  most  confoundedlj 
belie  your  words.  Let  me  present  you  to  Madam* 
BTtliai,  Mrik  Wiseman's  mother." 


*' LAST    SCPlN/'l    OF     ALL" 


3«3 


"  Her  mother  !"  cried  tlie  asionishcd  Archie. 

•*  Why,  yes.  Surely,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have 
not  heard  of  the  strange  events  that  have  lately  takes 
place  at  St.  Mark's  ?" 

"  Even  so  ;  I  am  in  a  state  of  most  lamentable  igno: 
ance.     I  pray  you,  enlighten  me." 

"  What !  have  you  not  even  heard  that  youi   anclo 
Dr.  Wiseman — and  Miss  Hagar  were  dead  ?" 

"  Dead  !"  said  Archie,  starting,  and  looking  at  Gipsj) 
whose  face  was  now  hidden  by  her  vail. 

"Yes;  but  I  see  you  know  nothing  about  it.  Come 
home  with  us,  and  you  shall  hear  all." 

"  Yes,  do,"  urged  Celeste  ;  "  Louis  and  I  will  be  de- 
Ughted  to  have  you  join  us." 

"  Louis  and  /,"  repeated  Archie,  rather  mischiev^ 
ously  ;  "  then  I  perceive  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing 
Mrs.  Oranmore." 

Of  course,  Celeste  laughed  and  blushed,  according 
to  the  rule  in  such  cases.  But  the  scene  they  had  just 
witnessed  had  saddened  the  whole  party  ;  and  the  jour- 
ney back  was  performed  in  silence.  Gipsy  was  the  grav- 
est of  all  ;  and,  leaning  back  in  the  gondola,  with  her 
vail  over  her  face,  she  never  condescended  to  open  hei 
lips,  save  when  directly  addressed  ;  and  then  her  answers 
were  much  shorter  than  sweet. 

But  when  they  went  home,  to  their  hotel,  and  every- 
thing was  explained,  and  he  had  learned  how  G'  isy  had 
been  forced  into  a  marriage  she  abhorred,  and  the  tcr 
rible  retribution  that  befell  the  murderer,  matters  begar 
to  assume  a  different  appearance.  Mr.  Rivers  had  long 
been  of  the  opinion  that  "  ii  is  not  good  for  man  to  be 
alone,"  and  firmly  believed  in  the  scriptural  injunction 
of  becoming  a  husband  of  one  wife  ;  and  concluded,  by 
proposing  in  due  form  to  Gipsy — who,  after  some  press 
ing,  consented  to  make  him  happy. 


F  '• .''  i 

I'  '"! 

J«4 


''LAST    SCENE     OF    ALL,' 


W 


J- 


"  But  not  till  we  go  home,"  was  the  reply  to  mil  bit 
entreaties.  "  I'm  just  going  to  get  married  at  dear  old 
St.  Mark's,  and  no  place  else  ;  and  give  Aunty  Gower  a 
rhancc  to  give  her  brown  satin  dress  another  airing — as 
ours  is  likely  to  be  the  last  wedding  at  Sunset  Hall  for 
iiome  time,  unless  guardy  takes  it  into  his  head  to  gci 
rmarried.  Now,  you  needn  t  coax  ;  I  won't  liave  you  tii^. 
we  get  home,  that's  flat."  And  to  this  resolution  she  ad- 
hered, in  spite  of  all  his  persuasions. 

The  bridal  tour  was,  of  necessity,  much  shortened  by 
the  desperate  haste  of  Archie — who,  like  the  man  with 
the  cork  leg,  seemed  unable  to  rest  in  any  place ;  and 
tore  like  a  comet  through  Europe,  and  breathed  not 
freely  until  they  stood  once  more  on  American  soil. 

And  three  weeks  after,  a  wedding  took  place  at  St. 
Mark's,  that  surpassed  everything  of  the  kind  that  had 
ever  been  heard  c  f  before.  Good  Aunty  Gower  was  in 
ecstasies  ;  and  the  squire,  before  the  party  dispersed, 
full  of  chair  pagnc  and  emotion,  arose  to  propose  a 
toast. 

"Ladies  and  fellow-citizens:  On  the  present  inter- 
esting occasion,  I  rise  to  " — here  the  speaker  took  a 
pinch  of  snuff — "  I  rise  to  " — here  a  violent  sneeze  inter- 
rupted him,  and  drew  from  him  the  involuntary  remark  : 
"  Lord  !  what  a  cold  I've  got  ! — as  I  was  saying,  I  rise  to 
propose  the  health  and  happiness  of  the  bride  and  bride- 
vroom  ;"  (cheers)  "like  the  flag  of  our  native  land,  long 
iiay  they  wave  !"  (desperate  cheering).  "  Marriage,  like 
liberty,  is  a  great  institution  ;  and  I  would  advise  every 
rrngle  man  present  to  try  it.  If  he  has  heretofore  given 
up  the  idea,  let  him  pluck  up  courage  and  try  again. 
*  Better  late  than  never,'  as  Solomon  says." 


THE  INOi 


to  mil  bit 
:  dear  old 
Gower  a 
.iring — as 
;  Mall  for 
ad  to  get 
e  you  tii'i 
m  she  ad* 

rtened  by 
man  with 
iace ;  and 
ithed  not 
soil. 

ace  at  St. 
that  had 
er  was  in 
iispersed, 
>ropose  a 

2nt  inter- 
r  took  a 
2ze  inter- 
remark  : 
,  I  rise  to 
nd  bride- 
md,  long 
iage,  like 
ise  every 
)re  given 
y  again. 


